THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HIS  OWN  IMAGE 


A  NOVEL 
BY 

Alan  Dale 


"  O,  beware,  my  lord,  of  jealousy ! 
It  is  the  green-eyed  monster  which  doth  mock 
Th«  meat  it  feeds  on. 


NEW    YORK: 

COPYRIOMT,    till,    IY 

G.     W.    Dillingham     Co.,    Publishers. 

MDCCCXCIX. 
{All rights  reserved.] 


/} 


CONTENTS 


PS.    . 

'  35O5. 
-  5-5. k 


I.  The  Actor  en  Ntgligt          ...       7 

II.  Felicia  Makes  a  Hit     .         .         .         .24 

III.  Reginald  Dissimulates         .         .         .42 

IV.  The  Horror  of  Success        .        .         .58 

V.  Crampton  Advises       .         .         .        -75 

VI.  "  Marry  Me,  Felicia  "  ...     88 

VII.  At  Tussaud's 102 

VIII.  Dejazet 119 

IX.  Felicia  Writes 136 

X.  The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square    .         .157 

XI.  La  Chinoise  Confesses         .        .        .  167 

XII.  Justifying  Crime  .         .         .         .181 

XIII.  Felicia  Returns  to  London  .         .  196 

XIV.  She  "  Interviews  "  Crampton       .         .211 
XV.  The  Flesh  and  the  Wax      .        .        .226 

XVI.  "  A  Week  from  To-day  "    .        .        .  242 

[5J 


Contents 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

XVII.  Shrimps  and  Watercress     .         .  .257 

XVIII.  "One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  .  271 

XIX.  The  Marriage  Prelude         .        .  .285 

XX.  His  Nemesis  .        .        .  .299 


HIS  OWN  IMAGE 


Chapter  I 

THE  ACTOR  en  ntgligt 

REGINALD  RELLERICK,  actor,  of  carefully  em- 
broidered reputation  ;  ego-maniac,  of  almost  psy- 
chological import,  turned  in  his  big  blue  bed,  drew 
up  his  feet,  and  yawned.  He  was  unstudied,  and 
unconsciously  human,  for  even  a  great  actor  can- 
not set  nature  entirely  at  defiance. 

The  dingy  sun  of  London  was  not  allowed  full 
play  in  Mr.  Rellerick's  apartment.  It  fought  its 
way  through  rosy  festooned  curtains,  and  planted 
an  absurd  carmine  clot  on  the  actor's  nose — a  nose 
that  had  been  discussed  throughout  the  land. 

Mr.  Rellerick  "  came  to  "  slowly,  as  though  the 
act  were  enjoyable — one  that  he  savoured.  His 
marvelously  one-toned  mind  gathered  up  the  threads 
of  its  own  make-up,  and  the  actor,  like  a  serial 
story,  gradually  prepared  himself  "  to  be  continued 
in  our  nejft."  A  smile  illumined  his  chaste,  yet 
classic  features,  as  he  realized  that,  after  all,  he  was 

[7] 


8  His  Own  Image 

himself.  He  rejoiced  each  morning  as  he  renewed 
his  own  acquaintance.  This  is  invariably  a  pleas- 
ant and  a  goodly  thing  for  an  ego-maniac  to  do. 

As  he  lay  there,  wallowing  in  the  mere  animal 
warmth  of  his  own  well-groomed  body,  his  import- 
ance arose  in  his  mind  like  a  mental  giant,  and 
filled  the  room.  He  saw  nothing  else.  The  lur- 
niture  was  all-himself ;  the  decorations  were  all- 
himself ;  the  big  blue  bed  was  all— himself ;  tl 
pink  adulterated  sun  was  nothing  but  a  useful  prop- 
erty designed  to  agreeably  tint  it  all. 

Mr  Rellerick  heaved  a  deep,  fat  sigh  of  content. 
He  wondered  why  the  outside  world  bothered  about 
getting  up  and  fretting  around  while  he  was  there 
on  his  pedestal.  For  him  nobody  else  existed. 
The  whole  non-ego  outside  was  but  a  feebly  de- 
nned shadow.  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry,  in  the  rush 
and  fever  of  their  pursuits  are  fully  aware  of  their 
own  subordination  to  the  rest  of  humanity.  Mr. 
Rellerick  was  unable  to  see  that  anything  he  did, 
or  might  elect  to  do,  was  not  of  vast,  of  universal 
importance. 

The  bottle-washer,  who  washes  bottles  for  his 
daily  bread,  realizes  that,  necessary  as  his  work  may 
be,  the  world  yet  contains  men  and  women  who  oc- 
casionally think  of  other  things  than  bottles.  The 
actor  ego-maniac,  on  the  contrary,  preferred  to  be- 
lieve that  the  universe  was  constructed  to  lead  up 
to  the  great  act  of  Himself.  Those  who  thought 
otherwise  were  his  mortal  enemies.  , Those  who 
coincided  were  his  slaves  and  his  unworthy  dupes. 
The  former  he  hated  ;  the  latter  he  despised. 


The  Actor  en  Ndgligt 


As  soon  as  he  was  thoroughly  awake,  Reginald 
cushioned  himself  artistically  in  the  big  blue  bed. 
His  perfect  profile  indented  the  soft  white  pillow. 
He  wished  that  there  was  somebody  there  to  see 
him.  He  was  so  accustomed  to  audiences  that  the 
solitude  of  his  bed-room  seemed  almost  ludicrous. 
A  large,  cool,  white  statue,  supposed  to  represent 
the  Venus  de  Medici  in  the  Museum  of  Florence, 
arrested  his  attention  momentarily.  He  amused 
himself  by  thinking  liow  envious  the  outside  world 
would  be  of  this  Venus,  if  she  could  only  manifest 
one  single  symptom  of  living  appreciation. 

By  this  time  Mr.  Rellerick  was  completely  him- 
self. All  traces  of  unconscious  humanity  had  van- 
ished. He  had  resumed  his  deleterious  occupation 
of  acting  a  part.  The  external  brou-JiaJia  of  Lon- 
don surged  and  circled  in  the  streets,  but  the  big 
blue  bed  was  just  then  the  actor's  world,  and  he 
was  its  population — a  teeming,  tumultuous  popula- 
tion of  one. 

He  sat  up  and  leaned  his  cheek  upon  his  hand,  in 
the  attitude  of  his  picture  at  the  National  Gallery. 
All  the  London  art  critics  had  lauded  that  attitude. 
He  rather  liked  it  himself. 

He  had  "  closed  his  season  "  at  his  own  theatre, 
built  for  him  by  his  own  admirers.  The  night  be- 
fore had  been  one  of  much  glory.  For  the  final 
and  ornamental  event  of  his  season  he  had  pro- 
duced a  new  play  by  a  well-known  playwright.  The 
playwright's  name  had  figured  in  tiny  type  on  the 
programmes — as  it  deserved  to  do.  His  own  had 
been  limited  only  by  the  size  of  the  bills. 


io  His  Own  Image 

Every  thing  came  back  to  him  in  a  sweet,  swirl- 
ing rush.  He  had  made  a  delightful  speech,  that 
had  cost  his  hard-worked  secretary  at  least  two 
weeks  of  earnest,  undiluted  thought.  He  had 
talked  blithely  of  the  education  of  the  masses — 
although  he  regarded  the  masses  as  "  supers  "  in 
his  own  seething  life-drama.  In  this  world  every- 
thing is  pretense,  and  he  was  obliged  to  pretend 
that  he  had  some  object  in  view,  other  than  his  own 
self-aggrandisement. 

How  they  had  all  applauded — those  dolts  in  the 
audience  !  The  Prince  of  Wales  had  been  there, 
with  pearl  kid  gloves,  and  the  Princess.  He  had 
led  the  applause  with  his  own  hands,  and  had  re- 
mained until  the  final  curtain  fell.  He  had  been 
noticed  talking  to  the  Princess  with  quite  unusual 
vivacity,  and  when  Rellerick  had  glanced,  in  loyal 
deference,  at  the  royal  box,  Albert  Edward  had 
been  positively  observed  to  very  nearly  smile. 
The  honour  of  it  all !  The  glory  ! 

"  The  strain  upon  the  actor  is  great,"  Reginald 
!  had  said.  "  The  constant  demands  made  upon  his 
emotions  are  bewildering.  I  am  sure  you  will  not 
grudge  me  a  holiday,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  It  is 
hard  to  leave  you,  even  temporarily.  Your  favour 
is  sweet ;  your  encouragement  is  dear  and  lovely. 
However,  nature  needs  recuperation.  I  go  from 
the  fevered  splendours  of  this  glittering  metropolis, 
to  those  glad,  poetic  haunts,  where  there  are  rip- 
pling brooks,  and  violet  landscapes,  and  all  the 
gorgeous  features  of  nature  unadorned." 

That  had  been  his  final  utterance.      Even  the 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligt  \  i 

ego-maniac  is  not  completely  fenced  in  from  the 
sublime  and  healing  sense  of  the  ridiculous.  Regi- 
nald Rellerick  choked  with  suppressed  laughter,  as 
he  lay  there  in  his  big  blue  bed.  Rippling  streams ! 
there  was  nothing  that  he  loathed  so  utterly.  Vio- 
let landscapes !  They  were  exceedingly  useful  for 
threadbare,  velveteen  artists  and  school-girl  ama- 
teurs. The  gorgeous  features  of  nature  unadorned  ! 
They  had  always  seemed  to  him  to  be  miserably 
kif-kif.  What  were  all  those  gorgeous  and  un- 
encompassed  features  to  the  soothing  rebellion, 
the  exquisite  mutiny,  of  Piccadilly  Circus? 

He  frowned  as  he  reflected  that  he  should  prob- 
ably be  expected  to  leave  London  for  a  time. 
The  odious  idea  of  "  taking  a  holiday  "  like  the 
butcher,  the  baker,  or  the  candlestick-maker,  op- 
pressed him  heavily.  The  public,  however,  insists 
that  we  shall  behave  conventionally.  We  must  go 
to  bed  when  it  is  night,  and  rise  when  it  is  day,  and 
"  take  a  holiday  "  once  a  year,  when  we  are  tired. 
To  be  successful  in  the  world,  we  must  subscribe 
to  its  conventions.  That  is  inevitable.  Reginald 
Rellerick  knew  it.  The  fact  was  perpetually 
dinned  into  his  ears  by  his  secretary.  Great 
though  he  might  be,  there  were  certain  grooves 
that  he  would  never  be  permitted  to  leave.  Only 
the  disapppointed  and  impecunious  cynic  can  af- 
ford to  do  as  he  likes. 

The  actor  sighed.  Could  he  ever  bring  himself 
to  leave  London — appreciative,  wonderful  London, 
where  he  was  known  and  recognised  at  all  times  ? 
A  dreadful  picture  of  country  barbarians  weighed 


12 


His  Own  Image 


upon  him.  The  idea  of  being  obliged  to  introduce 
himself  ;  to  explain  that  he  was  an  actor  ;  to  walk 
through  streets  where  nobody  cared  whether  he 
was  shaven  or  unshaven  ;  to  pass  whole  days 
among  people  who  were  absolutely  unconvinced  of 
his  greatness,  frightened  him.  The  mere  notion 
was  self-obliteration.  It  would  be  a  gap  in  his 
life.  Yet  he  smiled  again  as  he  recalled  his  words 
of  the  preceding  night—"  the  mental  strain  upon 
the  actor  " — "  the  constant  demands  made  upon  his 
emotions."  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  The  smile  developed 
into  a  laugh.  Even  the  cool,  white  face  of  the 
Venus  de  Medici  seemed  to  smile.  What  nonsense 
it  all  was !  Imagine  an  actor  putting  aside  the 
balmy  favour  of  a  "  crowded  house,"  and  rushing 
off,  with  a  valise,  to  listen  to  purling,  gurgling 
streams  !  The  mental  strain  of  pretending  to  like 
it  all  is  surely  the  most  arduous  task  of  his  life. 
At  least  that  is  what  Reginald  Rellerick  thought. 

The  actor  sat  up  and  touched  an  electric  bell  by 
the  side  of  his  bed.  The  gentle  tintinnabulation 
was  music  to  him.  It  placed  him  in  communica- 
tion with  his  sycophants.  Without  them,  he  was 
like  an  opium  eater  destitute  of  drug. 

"Send  Mr.  Crampton  to  me,"  he  said  to  the 
valet  in  response. 

The  menial  stood  for  a  moment  in  well-rehearsed 
admiration  of  his  master.  He  had  a  part  to  play, 
and  he  played  it  every  morning.  It  was  a  think- 
ing part,  but  it  was  one  of  those  "  bits  "  that  stand 
out.  All  that  he  had  to  do,  was  to  look  at  the 
recumbent  figure  on  the  bed  with  a  sudden  expres. 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligd  13 

sion  of  joy,  and  then  draw  himself  up  semi-apolo- 
getically,  as  though  the  lovely  sight  had  been  too 
much  for  him  and  had  caused  him  to  forget  him- 
self. 

Reginald  Rellerick  smiled  indulgently.  The 
valet  was  always  his  first  sycophant,  and  he  loved 
this  introduction  to  the  obsequious  galaxy !  Some- 
times he  called  his  menial  "  sirrah,"  because  the 
word  had  a  haughty,  old-time-y  sound  that  was  dis- 
tinctly luxurious. 

Mr.  Crampton,  the  secretary,  was  a  mouldy  per- 
son, with  stooping  shoulders  and  a  cadaverous  face 
of  jaundiced  hue.  The  face  was  quite  devoid  of  any 
expression.  The  shoulders  were  very  respectable. 
They  had  acquired  their  stoop  in  Reginald  Reller- 
ick's  service.  Mr.  Crampton  wrote  his  speeches 
when  he  opened  bazaars,  laid  foundation-stones,  or 
addressed  students.  Mr.  Crampton  answered  all 
his  letters,  and  was  responsible  for  various  learned 
articles  that  had  appeared  above  the  signature  of 
"  Reginald  Rellerick  "  in  leading  reviews.  He  was 
an  Oxonian  Master  of  Arts,  but  he  had  forgotten 
the  fact.  He  had  forgotten  everything,  in  the  ser- 
vice of  the  great  and  famous  actor. 

Mr.  Crampton  opened  the  door  and  entered.  In 
his  right  hand,  he  had  half  a  yard  of  column,  clipped 
from  a  newspaper.  The  ruddy  hue  of  the  drawn 
curtains  turned  his  gamboge  face  to  old  rose,  but 
imparted  no  expression  to  his  features.  Nothing 
could  do  that. 

"  This,"  said  Mr.  Crampton,  holding  up  the  half- 
yard  of  column,  "  is  a  most  agreeable  and  just  criti- 


I4  His  Own  Image 

cism  of  your  work  last  night.  It  will  please  you,  I 
am  quite  sure." 

Mr.  Crampton  hesitated.  He  knew  what  was 
coming. 

"  Is  that  the  only  clipping  you  have  to  give  me 
this  morning?"  asked  the  actor,  absurdly  anxious, 
and  carmining  slowly. 

The  secretary  shuffled,  ungainly  as  a  dromedary. 
"  I  have  carefully  read  every  paper,"  said  he,  "  and 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  many  of  the  notices  are  flip- 
pant, and  unworthy  of  your  attention.  You,  sir,  as 
you  have  told  me  often,  have  nothing  to  learn  from 
the  asses  who  call  themselves  critics.  Every  great 
man  has  his  enemies.  This  morning  I  have  noticed 
an  unusual  amount  of  spite,  malice  and  pettiness. 
All  these  are  really  tributes  to  your  greatness." 

An  observer  might  almost  have  imagined  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  on  Mr.  Crampton's  corpse-like  face. 
In  reality  there  was  none.  The  mouldy  secretary 
had  no  illusions.  Only  people  with  illusions  know 
the  bliss  of  a  surreptitious  smile. 

"  Read  me  your  criticism,"  commanded  the  great 
actor  harshly. 

It  was  a  magnificent  adjectival  commendation. 
Mr.  Reginald  Rellerick  was  world-famous,  and  he 
had  produced  a  new  play  ;  not  that  the  great  yet 
paying  public  attached  much  importance  to  a  play 
when  Rellerick  deigned  to  appear  in  it.  He  had 
been  plied  with  a  part  that  again  gave  his  stupend- 
ous genius  emotional  opportunities.  Far  from  that 
genius  being  on  the  wane— as  certain  malignant 
writers  professed  to  believe  (Rellerick  winced  at 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligt  15 

this)  it  had  never  been  more  convincingly  instanced. 
The  leading  lady,  Felicia  Halstead,  had  contributed 
a  "  reliable  "  performance,  but  one  that  was,  of 
course,  unimportant  artistically,  as  compared  with 
the  bewildering  effort  of  the  actor,  who  was  at  pres- 
ent making  the  history  of  the  English  stage.  Et 
patati.  Et  patati. 

"It  is  badly,  wretchedly  written,"  said  the 
Oxonian  Master  of  Arts,  "  but,"  added  the  obse- 
quious secretary,  "  it  is  very  just." 

"  It  is  admirably  written,"  cried  Reginald,  push- 
ing aside  the  pillow.  "  Why  there  is  not  an 
unfriendly  note  in  it.  It  was  the  work,  I  believe, 
of  young  Winkle — you  remember  the  fellow  I 
recommended  to  the  Screamer" 

"  I  believe  that  it  was,  sir,"  replied  the  secretary. 
"He  is  evidently  a  very  grateful  young  man." 

The  eyes  of  the  ego-maniac  rounded  themselves 
in  surprise.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  the 
word  '  grateful,'  Crampton,"  he  murmured.  "  It  is 
not  a  question  of  gratitude.  Mr.  Winkle  saw  my 
performance  without  prejudice,  without  envy,  with- 
out spite,  without  sinister  motives,  and  he  told  the 
truth  about  it.  The  others  are  all  liars  and  per- 
jurers. Winkle,  I  notice,  never  even  mentions  the 
name  of  the  playwright.  He  is  a  far-seeing  youth. 
He  knows  the  love  of  notoriety,  and  the  hankering 
for  publicity,  that  move  the  modern  playwright. 
He  declines  to  prostitute  himself  to  that  sort  of 
thing.  No  playwright's  name  should  ever  be  used 
in  the  review  of  a  great  actor's  work." 


16  His  Own  Image 

"  Except,  occasionally,  Shakespeare's,"  suggested 
the  secretary. 

"  You  are  right,  Crampton.  Shakespeare's  name 
never  does  any  harm.  It  rather  enhances  the 
actor's  value.  However,  as  I  was  saying,  I  am 
quite  pleased  with  Winkle.  He  is  a  remarkaby 
talented  young  writer.  If  I  had  my  way,  I  should 
have  his  views  set  up  in  all  the  papers.  I  must  dis- 
cuss the  question  in  the  Fortnightly.  You  can 
write  the  article  at  your  leisure,  Crampton.  Why 
shouldn't  there  be  but  one  critic  in  a  big  city  ? 
Dissenting  opinions  are  really  an  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  progress.  I  like  Winkle,  Crampton.  They 
tell  me  that  he  has  a  wife  and  nine  dear  little  chil- 
dren. Suppose  you  send  Mrs.  Winkle  an  auto- 
graph letter  from  me 

"  I  am  afraid  that  the  children  won't  find  it 
nourishing,"  interrupted  the  secretary. 

"  I  am  astonished,  Crampton.  Nobody  has  ever 
yet  accused  me  of  penuriousness.  I  was  going  to 
say  when  you  so  foolishly  interrupted,  that  you 
may  enclose  in  the  autograph  letter,  a  ten-pound 
note,  to  buy  boots,  or  comforters,  or  under-affairs 
for  the  olive-branches.  I  like  to  encourage  merit. 
You  may  leave  me  now.  I  shall  get  up,  and  possi- 
bly I  may  run  in  to  the  Garrick  for  an  hour  or  so." 

Crampton  shuffled  again,  in  his  dromedary-like 
clumsiness.  "You  have  said  good-bye  to  the 
public  for  the  present,"  he  said.  "  You  have 
announced  your  intention  to  rest.  If  you  could 
bring  yourself  to  avoid  the  club  for  a  few  weeks, 


The  Actor  en  Ndgligt  1 7 

the  effect,  I  think,  would  be  artistic.  Remember 
you  are  tired,  exhausted,  bent  upon  recuperation." 

The  mouldy  secretary  again  seemed  to  suggest 
the  inception  of  a  smile.  He  knew  Mr.  Rellerick 
so  well !  The  great  actor  lived  in  the  petty  adula- 
tion of  his  club,  in  the  unhealthy  warmth  of  its 
sycophancy,  in  the  mute  adoration  of  Tom,  Dick 
and  Harry.  It  was  hard  to  forsake  it  all,  even 
temporarily.  There  was  the  joy  of  being  gazed  at 
when  entering  ;  the  bliss  of  knowing  that  the  Ba- 
bel of  tongues  ceased  as  he  took  his  favourite  arm- 
chair ;  the  dulcet  satisfaction  of  the  triumphal 
exit.  Only  the  absolutely  ego-maniacal  actor  of 
diseased  personality  understands  the  furious  de- 
light of  perpetual  pose. 

Reginald  Rellerick  bit  his  lips  as  he  listened  to 
the  diplomacy  of  his  secretary.  It  was  wholesome 
advice.  He  knew  it.  Yet  to  accept  it  was  like 
voluntarily  wooing  incarceration.  The  great  actor 
lived  for  himself,  as  the  public  saw  him.  Minus 
that  public,  every  incentive  to  existence  was  lack- 
ing. The  ego-maniac  cares  little  for  riches,  except 
for  the  sycophancy  that  they  purchase  ;  he  has 
scant  interest  in  art,  save  for  the  glamour  that  it 
may  cast  over  his  personality.  Friendship  is  a 
rung  in  the  ladder  of  self ;  love  a  mere  sensual 
commodity. 

Having  offered  his  modicum  of  advice,  the 
mouldy  Crampton  withdrew.  Before  leaving,  how- 
ever, he  -took  from  his  pocket  a  budget  of  newspa- 
per clippings — the  adverse  criticisms  of  his  master's 
performance — and  placed  them  ostentatiously  on  a 


His  Own  Image 


marble  table.  This  mode  of  procedure  was  inevi- 
table. Baleful  curiosity  might  take  possession  of 
Mr.  Rellerick.  He  was  human,  after  all.  A  great 
actor,  like  other  deluded  people,  suffers  from  what 
is  known  as  the  "  mania  of  persecution."  He  likes 
to  know  his  enemies.  Adverse  criticism  is  to  him 
the  ammunition  of  the  enemy. 

To  the  public,  Mr.  Rellerick  never  "  read  new- 
papers."  To  Crampton,  he  perused  the  "  helpful  " 
criticisms — those  that  "  helped  "  the  illumination 
of  his  ego.  In  the  solitude  of  his  sanctum,  vis-ci-vis 
to  the  voluptuously  inert  Venus,  he  mastered  the 
inimical  comments  of  his  traducers.  Crampton 
guessed  this.  He  gave  him  the  opportunity  to 
satisfy  his  craving.  After  every  "  first  night  "  the 
same  things  happened.  The  secretary  appeared 
and  read  aloud  all  that  was  laudatory,  after  which 
he  deposited  all  that  was  non-laudatory  within  the 
grasp  of  his  master. 

Reginald  Rellerick  dressed  slowly.  It  was  an 
occupation  that  he  savoured.  In  the  silken  gar- 
ments given  the  honour  of  immediate  acquaintance 
with  his  cuticle,  the  actor  surveyed  himself  in  the 
long  cheval-glass.  It  was  an  honest  admiration 
that  he  felt,  and  there  was  no  need  for  disguise. 
His  own  personality  was,  to  him,  a  precious  gift. 
The  preparation  of  his  own  person  for  contact 
with  a  charmingly  appreciative  world  entertained 
him  extremely.  Yet  the  solitude  of  it  all  was  at 
times  irritating.  He  would  have  admitted  an 
audience  gladly,  without  the  slightest  qualms  of 
modesty.  He  enjoyed  this  daily  preparation,  but 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligt  19 

it  would  have  been  sweeter  if  the  chairs  in  his 
room  had  been  occupied  by  an  admiring  public. 

Reginald  Rellerick  was  not  what  is  known  as  a 
"  dandy."  To  have  imagined  that  mere  clothes 
enhanced  his  glories,  that  a  blue  necktie  stamped 
him  with  individuality,  or  that  a  creased  trouser 
betokened  refinement,  would  have  been  to  over- 
estimate the  value  of  sartorial  effect.  Clothes  are 
the  solace  of  the  squalidly  sane.  The  world  said 
that  he  was  badly  clad  and  that  his  taste  was 
execrable.  These  facts  made  his  trademark.  He 
would  not  have  changed  his  baggily-fitting  gar- 
ments for  the  sprucest  tailor-work  he  could  find. 
It  was  all  a  question  of  arranged  dis-arrangement, 
of  zealously  planned  slouchiness. 

Breakfast  was  served  to  him  in  an  alcove  that 
swelled  from  his  bed-chamber.  It  was  a  breakfast 
of  substance.  There  was  nothing  in  it  suggestive 
of  rose-leaves  and  dew-drops.  Although  Mr.  Rel- 
lerick posed  in  public  as  a  genius  to  whom  mere 
food  was  distasteful,  in  private  he  gratified  the 
longings  of  a  material  nature.  He  ate  eggs — the 
acme  of  all  that  is  commonplace  and  sordid.  He 
drank  the  tea  that  solaces  the  unintellectual  washer- 
woman and  opens  the  floodgates  of  a  frivolous 
eloquence. 

The  eyes  of  the  Venus  de  Medici — or  so  it 
seemed  to  this  connoisseur  of  eyes  and  their 
glances — watched  him  reproachfully,  as  he  ate  and 
drank  greedily.  He  felt  uncomfortable.  His  self- 
consciousness  was  embarrassing. 

When  he  had  finished  his  meal  and  lighted  an 


20  His  Own  Image 

Egyptian  cigarette,  the  great  actor  unceremoni- 
ously seized  the  budget  of  criticisms  which  had 
been  placed  upon  the  marble  table  by  the  seedy 
Crampton. 

It  was  apparently  an  interminable  budget. 
Every  newspaper  in  London,  with  the  exception 
of  that  which  owned  the  worshipful  Mr.  Winkle  as 
its  critic,  had  a  point  to  make.  It  was  a  dreary 
and  an  intolerable  point.  As  it  was  brought  home 
to  the  ego-maniac  he  flung  the  Egyptian  cigarette 
to  the  ground  and  stamped  it  out  of  existence.  As 
its  full  significance  dawned  upon  him,  the  calm  of 
his  features  was  dissipated,  and  in  its  place  ap- 
peared an  odious  expression  of  rage  and  hatred. 

He  arose  and  stood  glaring  at  the  Venus  de 
Medici  as  though  that  white  witness  of  his  fury 
might  have  helped  the  situation.  Backward  and 
forward  he  paced,  his  mind  in  a  tumult  as  the  real 
force  of  the  catastrophe  struck  him. 

An  actor's  soliloquy  on  the  stage  is  generally 
considered  unreal.  A  soliloquy  in  actual  life  is 
uncanny.  Mr.  Rellerick  soliloquized  aloud  in  his 
room.  What  he  said  was  neither  poetic  nor  elevat- 
ing. 

"  The  cat !"  he  cried.  "  To  undermine  me  in 
the  minds  of  those  critical  vermin.  And  that  is  the 
woman  I  have  helped  and  praised  and  loved  !" 

He  brought  his  clenched  fist  down  on  the  break- 
fast table.  The  cups  shivered  in  their  frail,  china 
way.  A  plate  fell  to  the  floor,  rudely  broken. 
Once  again  he  picked  up  the  clippings  and  read 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligt  21 

them  all  anew,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  lips  quivering, 
his  frame  in  a  paroxysm  of  anger. 

It  was  all  too  malevolently  true.  Felicia  Hal- 
stead  was  the  name  with  which  these  criticisms 
reeked.  The  fact  that  she  had  deliberately  wrested 
the  honours  of  the  play  from  his  stellar  grasp,  was 
the  story  that  they  told.  Enthusiastic  praise  of  her 
work  was  the  derogatory  theme  ;  graphic  descrip- 
tion of  her  "  magnetic  personality  "  flavoured  the 
whole  thing.  Felicia  Halstead,  his  leading  lady! 
Felicia  Halstead,  his  automaton  !  Felicia  Halstead, 
his  plaything  and  satellite  ! 

The  rage  of  the  great  actor,  like  a  snowball  roll- 
ing over  snowy  ground,  gathered  weight  as  it  re- 
volved around  its  own  sensations.  No  such  over- 
whelming calamity  had  suggested  itself  to  him. 
There  had,  perhaps,  been  indications,  but  to  the 
ego-maniac,  indications  rarely  indicate.  He  had 
never  even  noticed  her  work.  She  had  been  to  him 
what  in  the  jargon  of  his  over-rated  "  profession  '' 
is  termed  a  "  feeder."  She  was  an  animated 
"  super  " — nothing  more.  Yet  these  malignant 
penny-a-liners,  whose  lucubrations  were  permitted 
full  sway,  dared  to  assert  that  it  was  she,  Felicia 
Halstead,  who  had  triumphed,  and  that  he, 
Reginald  Rellerick,  whose  name  was  a  house- 
hold word  throughout  the  land,  had  been 
swamped  ! 

The  shock  of  it  all  dazed  him.  As  he  looked  at 
his  Venus  he  saw  it  distorted.  There  was  a  devil- 
ish smile  on  its  icy  lips,  a  sinister  arching  of  its 
marble  brows.  A  chilly  horror  of  the  figure  seized 


22 


His  Own  Image 


him,  and  with  one  blow  he  felled  it  to  the  ground. 
It  lay  at  his  feet  unbroken,  and  a  slight  satisfaction 
at  his  manifest  power  visited  him.  This  satisfac- 
tion was  short-lived.  His  perturbation  returned  in 
full  force.  A  dismal  presentiment  of  waning  hap- 
piness took  possession  of  him.  After  all,  his  career 
was  his  life,  his  hope,  his  excuse  for  existence. 
She  was  a  thief,  an  interloper,  a  menace. 

He  rang  the  bell  and  Crampton  appeared.  The 
secretary  saw  what  had  happened  but  was  quite 
undismayed.  He  picked  up  the  bust  of  the  Venus 
and  set  it  carefully  upon  its  pedestal.  He  glanced 
at  the  shattered  plate  and  at  the  demoniac  expres- 
sion on  his  master's  face.  Then  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  waited. 

"  Get  a  hansom,"  cried  Rellerick,  "and  go  at 
once  to  Miss  Halstead's  house.  Bring  her  here. 
Don't  return  without  her.  If  she  declines  to  come, 
use  force.  I  insist  upon  seeing  her." 

Crampton  showed  surprise.  This  was  an  unusual 
proceeding.  He  could  imagine  no  circumstances 
that  could  induce  Felicia  Halstead  not  to  respond 
to  her  master's  bidding.  He  could  as  soon  have 
seen  the  flowers  in  the  garden  opposite  refusing  to 
turn  to  the  sun. 

"  Go  !"  shouted  the  actor.  "  Why  are  you  wait- 
ing there  gaping  ?  Bring  her  back  with  you." 

Crampton  nodded.  He  could  think  of  nothing 
to  say.  Diplomacy  seemed  to  be  unnecessary. 
Advice  was  out  of  the  question,  for  what  could  he 
advise  ?  Some  inkling  of  the  truth  probably 


The  Actor  en  Ntgligt  23 

reached  him  as  he  turned  to  leave.  Five  minutes 
later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Miss  Halstead's  apart- 
ment. Poor  Felicia!  The  secretary  sighed  as  he 
thought  of  her. 


Chapter  II 


FELICIA  MAKES  A  HIT 

FELICIA  HALSTEAD  was  one  of  those  neutrally 
gray,  incomplete  creatures  we  used  to  call  woman, 
before  Mme.  Sarah  Grand's  hideous  prose  had  de- 
clared war  against  Tennyson's  matchless  poetry. 
She  was  "  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 
unto  wine."  The  pale  art  of  self-obliteration  was 
her  chiefest  coquetry.  She  was  a  plaything,  with 
wires  made  to  be  pulled  by  the  dominant  sex.  In 
any  other  of  life's  walks  Felicia  Halstead  would 
have  played  the  maternal  role  delightfully.  The 
soft  cushions  of  her  being  were  designed  by  nature 
for  pillows  to  the  young  idea.  She  might  have  been 
a  mother  of  lithe,  brave  sons,  or  of  sinuous,  whole- 
some daughters.  Her  life  had  moulded  itself  other- 
wise. Her  lovely  feminine  qualities  had  been 
poured  into  the  lap  of  Reginald  Rellerick.  All  her 
instincts  had  been  turned  in  his  direction.  His  was 
the  shrine  at  which  she  worshipped,  as  far  as  this 
world  was  concerned.  Her  pearls  were  cast  before 
swine.  It  is  a  very  usual  case. 

Felicia's  face  suggested  sunshine.  It  was  bright, 
imperfect  and  warm.  There  was  warmth  in  her 
eyes ;  healthy  life  in  her  red,  wet  lips.  Her  face  was 
[24] 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  25 

shadowed  by  a  tangled  growth  of  thick,  picture- 
book  hair.  That  hair  was  dyed  to  the  conventional 
theatrical  "  shade  "  of  impossible  yellow.  Mr.  Rel- 
lerick  preferred  it  so,  his  own  being  dark  and  sin- 
ister. Felicia  would  have  crimsoned  her  tresses 
had  he  suggested  it.  Her  tints  were  matters  of 
the  utmost  indifference  to  her.  He  had  told  her 
that  she  was  pretty  with  her  improbable  yellow  hair, 
and  she  was  satisfied.  .  .  She  cared  to  be  pretty, 
because  she  was  eminently  natural.  She  was  glad 
that  Reginald  had  indicated  the  exact  way  in  which 
to  acquire  beauty.  It  was  so  much  easier  than 
thinking  it  out  for  herself.  If  she  had  been  left  to 
her  own  resources  she  would  probably  have  had  the 
courage  of  mud-coloured  hair. 

Her  figure,  in  an  artistic  country,  would  have 
made  the  fortune  of  artists.  But  Felicia  lived  in 
London,  where  curves  are  looked  upon  with  dis- 
trust, and  a  straight  corset  denotes  a  straight  mor- 
ality. Miss  Halstead  laced  herself  into  stays  sup- 
plied by  Her  Majesty's  favourite  corset-maker,  and 
did  the  correct  thing  unquestioningly.  The  pretty 
face  of  an  Englishwoman  is  supposed  to  atone  for 
all  her  defects.  It  generally  does  so — in  England. 

The  young  actress  lived  in  a  quiet  little  Netting 
Hill  house,  with  a  respectable,  black  alpaca  lady, 
used  as  a  housekeeper.  The  housekeeper  was  pro- 
priety itself.  She  always  wore  a  cameo  brooch, 
with  an  extinct  husband's  hair  at  the  back,  and  a 
circle  of  white  ruching  round  her  neck.  Nobody 
doubted  her.  Nobody  could  doubt  her.  Any  jury 
in  England  would  have  acquitted  her  of  anything 


26  His  Own  Image 

on  earth,  without  leaving  their  seats,  with  the  cameo 
brooch  and  the  ruching  as  damning  evidence  of  her 
virtue. 

Mrs.  Landington  had  been  selected  as  the  black 
alpaca  associate  of  Felicia  Halstead  by  Reginald 
Rellerick  himself.  Mrs.  Landington  was  there  to 
protect  his  own  reputation,  rather  than  that  of  the 
careless  Felicia.  The  housekeeper  was  amusingly 
squalid  and  non-provocative.  She  could  have  been 
the  mother  of  a  professional  beauty,  and  have 
watched  her  daughter's  career,  without  an  inkling 
of  its  truth.  She  could  have  posed  as  the  parent 
of  a  sealskin  chorus  girl,  with  princely  perquisites 
and  a  salary  of  thirty  shillings  a  week,  and  have  felt 
no  misgivings.  Her  salient  black  alpaca  bust  was 
comfortable  arid  reliable.  Felicia  was  to  her  an 
ordinary  working-woman  in  need  of  a  domestic 
background.  She  fed  her  on  chops  and  boiled  po- 
tatoes, and  affected  to  misunderstand  Miss  Hal- 
stead's  aesthetic  longings  for  more  artistic  nu- 
triment. She  alluded  to  Mr.  Rellerick  as  Felicia's 
"  employer  "  and  was  persistent  in  her  efforts  to 
please  him. 

It  was  Mrs.  Landington  who  opened  the  door  for 
Mr.  Crampton,  as  the  mouldy  secretary  hastened  to 
do  his  master's  bidding.  Crampton,  in  Mrs.  Land- 
ington's  eyes  was  the  lowest  grade  of  servant.  She 
retained  her  housekeeper's  apron,  after  she  had 
looked  through  the  key-hole  of  the  front  door  to 
ascertain  the  identity  of  the  visitor. 

"  Miss  Halstead  is  not  up,"  she  said  unpromis- 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit 


ingly.  "  If  you  wish  to  talk  to  her  you  had  better 
come  again." 

"  Please  tell  her,"  quoth  Crampton,  "  that  Mr. 
Rellerick  wants  to  see  her  at  once.  I  am  to  wait 
for  her  and  take  her  back  with  me  in  the  hansom 
outside."  Then  he  added,  in  a  sort  of  washed  out 
attempt  at  easy  commonplace  :  "  It's  rather  early 
to  be  here,  isn't  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Landington  made  no  response  whatever  to 
the  secretary.  She  motioned  to  him  to  enter,  and 
swept  him  into  a  reception-room  that  held  wax 
flowers  under  shades,  and  woolen  mats  on  ricketty 
tables — according  to  popular  suburban  dictates  of 
taste.  Then  the  black  alpaca  lady  trotted  upstairs, 
and  two  minutes  later  Felicia's  voice  was  heard 
from  aloft. 

"  I  shall  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,"  it  said,  for 
Mr.  Crampton's  benefit.  "  Have  you  any  idea 
what  Mr.  Rellerick  wants  ?" 

The  secretary  raised  his  foggy  tones  and  sent 
them  upstairs  as  well  as  he  could.  He  had  no  idea, 
he  said.  But  he  bit  his  lips  immediately,  and  sighed. 
There  was  no  need  to  play  a  prelude  to  the  great 
actor's  evil  intentions.  She  would  discover  them 
for  herself  soon  enough. 

Miss  Halstead  was  not  long  dressing.  There 
were  no  mysteries  about  her  toilet.  It  was  a  sim- 
ple and  unassuming  affair.  She  appeared  before 
the  secretary  in  a  robust  dark  blue  costume  that 
would  have  been  scorned  by  a  cook  on  her  Sunday' 
out.  Her  face  was  fresh  and  rosy.  Her  gold-dyed 
hair  was  exquisitely  dishevelled — according  to 


2g  His  Own  Image 

Reginald's  ideas— and  it  was  the  only  feature  of 
her  personality  that  spoke  of  the  fevered  life  thut 
she  led. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Crampton,"  said  Miss  Hal- 
stead.  "  You  are  indeed  an  early  bird.  I  suppose 
that  Mr.  Rellerick  is  going  to  alter  my  part  in  last 
night's  play.  I  think  there  was  rather  too  much 
of  it.  It  conflicted  too  much  with  his  own,  as  I 
thought  it  would  do.  The  public  doesn't  want  two 
stars  when  Reginald  is  there,  does  it,  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton  ?" 

Felicia's  sunshine  lightened  the  room.  Poor, 
mouldy  Crampton  thought  she  was  the  most  be- 
wildering picture  of  a  bewildering  sex  that  his 
pale,  platonic  eyes  had  ever  seen.  The  wax  flow- 
ers seemed  to  melt  in  her  presence,  and  Mrs.  Land- 
ington's  evil,  suburban  ornamentation  to  acquire 
an  artistic  value.  He  said  nothing,  however.  Fe- 
licia knew  him  so  well  that  she  expected  his 
silence. 

"  I  must  just  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  and  look  at  a 
slice  of  bread  and  butter,"  she  went  on,  "or  Mrs. 
Landington  will  be  mortally  offended.  She  is  very 
touchy  on  the  subject  of  breakfast,  and  if  I  went 
away  without  eating  she  would  look  upon  me  as  a 
sort  of  heathen." 

As  she  spoke  the  alpaca  housekeeper  appeared 
with  a  tray  that  held  so  much  stodgily  wholesome 
food  on  its  lacquered  surface,  thac  Felicia  tinkled 
with  laughter. 

"  I  shan't  eat  at  all,  dear,"  she  said  to  the  re- 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  29 

spectable  lady,  "  because  Mr.  Rellerick  must  be  in 
a  great  hurry.     It  looks  very  nice,  though." 

Then  as  Mrs.  Landington's  lips  began  to  purse 
themselves  rather  threateningly,  she  added,  "  I'll 
make  up  for  it,  Landy,  when  I  come  back.  You 
can  give  me  boiled  mutton  for  dinner,  and  I'll  eat 
it  all.  And — and — do  let  me  have  one  of  your 
bread  puddings,  dear.  I  shall  be  as  a  hungry  as  a 
hunter  and  a  half.  Business  is  business,  isn't  it, 
Landy?  You  couldn't  expect  me  to  eat  this  nest 
of  eggs,  and  that  aquarium  of  fish,  when  my  em- 
ployer sends  for  me  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  I  never  ask  the  impossible,  my  dear,"  was  the 
housekeeper's  reply.  "  You  have  a  good,  indulgent 
master,  and  you  must  obey  him." 

In  the  cab,  Felicia's  glowing  matutinal  spirits 
could  not  be  repressed,  either  by  the  dingy  pic- 
tures in  the  streets  or  the  mouldy  secretary's  ap- 
parently obstinate  indifference. 

"  What  do  the  papers  say  about  last  night  ?"  she 
asked  impetuously  ;  "  I  never  saw  Reginald  so 
completely  glorious  as  he  was  during  my  death 
scene.  It  was  the  most  perfect  piece  of  work  he 
has  ever  done.  I  almost  forgot  to  die,  I  was  so 
engrossed  in  that  splendid  farewell  utterance  he 
made  to  me." 

"  But  it  was  your  death  scene,"  muttered  Mr. 
Crampton  gloomily. 

"  And  in  the  second  act,"  went  on  Felicia> 
"  when  he  declined  to  listen  to  my  siren-like  bland- 
ishments— I  am  always  an  utter  failure  as  a  siren — 


His  Own  Image 


it  seemed  to  me  that  his  voice  was  sheer,  entran- 
cing music.     Marvelous—  marvelous,  I  call  it." 

"  But  the  audience  sympathised  with  you,"  said 
Crampton,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Well,  perhaps  a  few  of  my 
superfluous  lines  might  be  removed.  Such  art  as 
Reginald's  should  stand  alone.  The  trouble  was 
that  Pinerville  wrote  this  play  for  a  stock  company 
rather  than  a  star.  Still  I  am  sure  that  Reginald 
will  be  able  to  make  changes  in  it.  What  did  the 
critics  say  ?" 

"  Why  don't  you  read  the  papers  ?"  asked  Cramp- 
ton,  with  an  almost  ferocious  intonation. 

Felicia  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  laughed.  It 
seemed  to  her  a  very  absurd  question.  There  was 
nothing  that  she  wanted  to  hear  but  a  general  ver- 
dict. As  a  rule  she  relied  upon  Mr.  Rellerick  for 
this.  She  preferred  to  abstain  from  mere  technical 
criticism. 

"You  are  a  cross  person,  Crampton,"  she  said, 
pinching  his  arm  as  though  he  had  been  a  refractory 
schoolboy.  "  I  should  like  very  much  to  be  vexed 
with  you,  but  I  haven't  time.  Tell  me  this  :  do 
the  critics  rave  ?  I  know  they  do  —  of  course  they 
must  —  but  I  should  like  to  hear  it  from  your  sedate 
and  unimpressive  lips.  You  are  such  a  sedate  per- 
son, Crampton  !  You  know  you  are.  If  you  were 
a  few  years  older  I  should  engage  you  to  Mrs. 
Landington.  So  rejoice  in  your  youth,  my  dear 
sir." 

The  mouldy  secretary  shivered  slightly,  in  spite 
of  the  warmth  of  the  morning,  and  his  face  looked 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  31 

more  like  parchment  than  ever.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary to  answer  Felicia's  question,  for  she  was  chat- 
tering gaily  and  volubly,  quite  forgetful  of  her 
temporary  desire  for  a  verdict.  She  was  so  certain 
of  that  verdict !  She  took  it  for  granted.  Men  were 
not  blind,  and  women  were  not  fools  to  hold  them- 
selves aloof  from  the  divinest  dramatic  powers  in  the 
universe. 

"  I  can't  imagine  you  as  Mr.  Landington,"  she 
frivoled,  "  driven  to  perpetual  boiled  mutton  and 
bread  pudding.  It  is  bad  enough  for  me.  What 
would  it  be  for  you  ?  Yesterday,  Crampton,  I  stole 
away  to  the  Grove — this  is  distinctly  entre  nous — 
and  had  game  pie  and  a  pint  of  champagne,  in 
sheer  self-defence.  The  poor  old  lady  would  have 
cried  her  eyes  out  if  she  had  known.  But  I  felt  I 
couldn't  tackle  a  new  play  on  a  boiled  mutton 
foundation.  You  see  I've  confided  in  you,  although 
you  are  so  cross.  Why  are  you  so  cross,  Mr- 
Crampton  ?  Don't  you  ever  feel,  when  you  see 
Reginald  act,  that  life  isn't  nearly  as  black  as  it  is 
painted  ?  Don't  you  ever  feel  that,  Mr.  Cramp- 
ton?" 

The  secretary  made  no  reply.  He  moved  an 
inch  or  two  away  from  Miss  Halstead,  and  mur- 
mured something  anent  the  lack  of  swiftness  charac- 
teristic of  London  cab-horses.  They  fell  into  a 
temporary  silence.  He,  moodily,  chewed  a  bitter 
cud  that  seemed  to  be  the  quintessential  dregs  of 
his  nature  ;  she  was  lulled  into  apathy  by  one  of 
those  sudden,  presentimental  gusts  that  persistently 
hover  around  light,  impressionable  temperaments. 


32  His  Own  Image 

The  hansom  rollicked  over  the  neat  grey  asphalt 
pavement,  and  flew  through  the  early  street  noises 
and  the  squalor  of  Lond6n.  The  mouldy  secretary 
was  the  first  to  speak.  His  voice  had  a  rumbling 
sound,  as  though  it  were  not  quite  sure  of  itself. 
His  parchment  face  seemed  to  mellow  faintly,  and 
there  was  a  distinctly  human  anxiety  in  his  manner 
as  he  turned  to  her. 

"  Tell  me,  Miss  Halstead,"  he  said,  "  if  you,  your- 
self, never  feel  an  individual  ambition  ?  Are  Regi- 
nald's hopes  infectious  ?  Do  you  never  say  to 
yourself  that  one  of  these  days  you,  too,  will  be 
the  puissant  theatrical  star,  dominating  tue  master- 
pieces of  pinnacled  playwrights,  spoken  of  in  all  the 
homes  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland  ?  Are 
you  content  to  play  second  fiddle  to  Mr.  Rellerick 
for  ever  and  for  aye  ?" 

It  was  a  high-falutin  utterance,  that  he  attempted 
to  vulgarize  by  his  "  second  fiddle "  allusion. 
Crampton  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  the  writing 
of  ornamental  English  that  occasionally  he  spoke 
it.  He  looked  earnestly  at  Felicia  Halstead  as  he 
talked.  He  approached  her  unconsciously  and 
never  knew  it  until  the  subtle  perfume  of  her  un- 
caught  hair  spoke  fragrantly  of  her  proximity. 

"  I  have  no  ambition,  Crampton,"  replied  Felicia, 
rather  gravely ;  "  I  am  a  cog — a  happy  cog — in 
Reginald's  mechanism.  That  is  all.  I  could  never 
be  what  the  world  calls  '  great,'  Crampton.  I  have 
no  dominancy,  no  magnetism,  nothing  that  is  un- 
usual. Why  do  you  ask  me  such  questions  ?  They 
might  almost  insinuate  that  I  am  lacking  in  loyalty. 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  33 

Reginald's  success  is  all  that  interests  me.  Don't 
you  know,  Crampton,  that — that — I — love — him  ?" 

The  confession  was  surprised  from  her  lips.  It 
was  an  unpleasant  and  a  compromising  confession. 
She  felt  that,  as  soon  as  she  had  uttered  it.  It  was 
Reginald  whom  the  words  might  compromise.  The 
great  actor,  as  she  knew,  tried  to  keep  himself  un- 
tainted from  the  gossip-mongers.  For  her  own  re- 
putation, she  cared  nothing  at  all.  She  would  will- 
ingly have  proclaimed  her  subjection  to  Reginald 
from  the  house-tops. 

"  When  I  say  I  love  him,  Crampton,"  she  con- 
tinued hesitantly,  "  I  mean,  of  course,  that  I  admire 
his  art,  and  respect  his  personality.  You  under- 
stand, I  am  sure." 

Yes,  the  mouldy  secretary  understood.  He  sat 
there,  trembling  and  uneasy.  The  cab  seemed  to 
him  like  a  hideous  projectile,  shooting  them  into 
infernal  comprehension.  He  understood,  for  the 
situation  was  not  in  the  least  enigmatical.  It  was 
bald  and  easy.  Mr.  Crampton  bit  his  lips.  There 
was  enigma  in  that  action,  at  any  rate.  Why  did 
Mr.  Crampton  bite  his  lips  ? 

Mr.  Rellerick's  door  was  opened  to  the  couple 
by  a  delightfully  theatrical  looking  "character" 
person  with  comedy  manners.  This  gentleman 
aspired  to  his  master's  calling,  but  was  as  yet  un- 
satisfied. He  played  persistent  roles  in  the  kitchen, 
however,  with  Reginald's  fat  cook  as  a  voluntary 
ingenue. 

Felicia  nodded  amicably  to  the  secretary,  and 
ran  lightly  upstairs  to  Reginald's  study.  It  was 


His  Own  Image 


there  that  Reginald  encountered  many  other  peo- 
ple. Miss  Halstead  was  quite  safe  in  this  study. 
Even  the  "  interviewer  "  was  permitted  to  talk  to 
and  to  photograph  her  there.  The  room  contained 
a  huge  bookcase,  filled  with  volumes  that  the  great 
actor  had  never  read.  These  volumes  were  affronts 
to  his  ego-mania,  for  they  dealt  with  old,  extinct 
actors.  Easy  chairs,  a  couple  of  sofas,  and  an  orn- 
amental fire-place  were  other  features  of  this  room. 
It  was  aggressively  dark  and  heavy  ;  magnificently 
ponderous  and  uncomfortable.  It  was  popular, 
however,  for  in  all  the  pictures  portraying  "  Mr. 
Rellerick  at  home  "  or  "  The  great  actor  in  his 
study  "  it  appeared  gracefully.  It  was  distinctly  a 
room  "  for  the  public,"  glowingly  labelled  with  the 
"  private  "  brand.  It  was  part  and  parcel  of  Rel- 
lerick's  colossal  lie  to  the  world.  It  was  mendacity, 
carpeted  and  furnished. 

Felicia  paused  at  the  open  door  of  the  sanctum. 
She  could  see  Reginald  pacing  up  and  down  the 
Orientally-rugged  floor.  He  wore  a  dressing-gown, 
with  affected  carelessness,  and  a  large  meerschaum 
pipe  hung  from  his  loose,  bulging  lips.  Much  of 
his  smug  complacency  seemed  to  have  vanished. 
There  was  action,  alert,  crafty  and  vindictive,  in  his 
manner.  He  saw  Felicia  at  the  precise  moment 
that  she  saw  him.  He  motioned  to  her  to  enter, 
then  carefully  closed  the  door.  The  footstep  of 
Crampton  was  heard  descending  the  stairs.  Then 
the  outer  world  was  forgotten.  Felicia  and  Regi- 
nald were  together. 

The  young  actress,  after  a  first  performance,  felt 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  35 

her  keenest  joy  in  congratulating  her  idol  upon  his 
success.  It  was  a  pleasure  in  which  she  was  gra- 
ciously permitted  to  indulge  by  Reginald  himself. 
He  accepted  her  adulation  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Hers  was  merely  a  voice  in  the  adulatory  harmony 
in  which  his  sycophants  bathed  him.  With  her,  it 
was  the  luxurious  expression  of  a  sincerity  that  was 
an  almost  overwhelming  gratification. 

On  this  occasion  her  words  were  checked  by  the 
saturnine  look  on  the  great  actor's  face.  He  held 
up  one  hand  warningly.  Then,  as  a  look  of  blank 
astonishment  crept  into  Felicia's  face,  he  remarked 
satirically,  "  Permit  me  to  congratulate  you." 

Felicia  Halstead  decided  to  smile.  Her  Regi- 
nald's various  moods  infallibly  pleased  her.  This 
was  a  new  one,  and  there  was  humour  in  it.  Regi- 
nald rarely  allowed  himself  a  dash  of  humour. 

"  As  you  will,  my  lord,"  she  said,  dropping  a 
mock  courtesy,  her  face  radiant  with  laughter, 
"  Mistress  Felicia  Halstead  is  but  a  woman,  and 
woman  is  a  vain  creature.  Praise  from  Sir  Hubert, 
you  know, — What  is  the  matter,  Reginald  ?" 

She  asked  the  question  quickly,  impelled  sud- 
denly from  her  frivolity.  The  lines  around  the 
actor's  mouth  emphasized  themselves  cruelly.  His 
brows  fell,  blackly  menacing,  and  the  tints  of  his 
face  grew  lead-like.  He  ceased  his  aimless  parade 
and  folding  his  arms,  stood  looking  at  her  gloomily. 

"  Miss  Halstead  is  playing  the  usual  role  of  the 
theatrical  ingrate,"  he  said  sternly.  "  She  is  en- 
deavouring surreptitiously  to  cut  herself  loose  from 
an  enviable  position.  She  is  eager  to  pose  before 


36  His  Own  Image 

the  foolish  public  as  a  great  actress.  She  has  be- 
gun war  against  her  benefactor — the  man  who  has 
given  her  every  opportunity  that  a  woman  could 
ask." 

The  girl,  who  had  not  yet  taken  a  seat,  stared 
at  him  daftly.  She  could  scarcely  credit  the  mean- 
ing of  what  she  heard.  Then,  with  a  rush,  the 
recollection  of  Crampton's  words  in  the  cab  surged 
through  her  mind.  Still  it  was  all  a  mystery  to 
her.  She  sat  down  quietly  in  an  easy-chair,  and 
began  to  remove  her  long,  fluffy  boa,  and  to  pull 
the  pins  from  her  hat. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  say  something,"  groaned  the 
great  actor,  utterly  regardless  of  her  consternation. 

"  You  ask  me  to  say  something,  Reginald,"  mur- 
mured Felicia.  "You  are  ill  this  morning.  I 
can  see  that.  You  have  worked  too  long  and  too 
arduously.  You  must  take  a  holiday.  Reginald, 
let  us  go  to  the  lakes — where  you  promised  to  take 
me  years  ago.  Nobody  will  know  us.  We  can 
live  in  some  little  cottage  with  simple  country  folks, 
and  we  can  pretend  that  we  are  away  on  our 
honeymoon — just  as  though  we  had  never  known 
what  a  theatre  was,  or  what  London  meant.  You 
will  do  this,  dearest,  will  you  not  ?" 

Reginald's  face  grew  even  harder  and  more  ego- 
maniacal.  The  "  persecution  "  idea,  always  preva- 
lent in  the  diseased  mentality,  took  possession  of 
him  completely.  He  laughed  in  an  ugly,  joyless 
fashion.  Then  he  came  to  her,  as  she  waited  on 
her  chair,  and  standing  in  front  of  her  placed  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders. 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  37 

"No,"  he  said  harshly, "  there  will  be  no  lakes  for 
us.  There  is  a  plot  abroad — a  plot  for  my  des- 
truction, and  you  are  in  it.  The  truth  has  appeared 
this  morning.  I  won't  ask  you  to  deny  that  you 
instigated  the  criticisms  that  applaud  you  at  my 
expense.  You  are  a  woman.  You  have  made  your 
appeal,  and  it  has  been  heard.  This  morning  the 
dolts  of  the  press  rave  over  Miss  Felicia  Halstead 
and  ignore  her  star.  I  might  have  expected  it. 
Still,  remembering  the  sentimental  nature  of  our 
attachment,  I  confess  that  I  looked  for  other 
results." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  never  innately  perjured 
human  heart  realized  the  infamy  of  the  uttered 
words.  The  sentimental  attachment  between  them 
had  been  used  by  the  actor  as  a  means  of  holding 
the  woman  in  the  blind  subjection  of  love.  That 
was  all.  It  was  a  means  to  an  end.  Everything 
is  a  means  to  an  end — a  selfish  end — with  the  ego- 
maniac. 

Still,  Felicia  failed  to  understand.  "  I  don't  see 
what  you  mean,  Reginald,"  she  said.  "  It  must  be  a 
horrid  jest.  I  don't  like  it.  You  know,  dear,  what 
you  are  to  me.  What  do  I  care  for  the  theatre  or 
for  what  the  critics  say  ?  I  am  yours,  for  as  much, 
or  as  little  as  you  will.  I  have  told  you  that  my 
dearest  hope  is  to  be  your  wife.  How  could  a 
wife  war  against  her  husband  ?  Reginald,  you  are 
a  silly  boy.  Let  us  drop  the  subject.  You  have 
not  kissed  me  to-day.  You  may  do  so  now. 
Come." 

She  held  up  a  face  in  which  laughter  was  strug- 


His  Own  Image 


gling  with  a  ferocious  battle  of  tears.  If  ever  sin- 
cerity spoke,  it  could  be  heard  in  the  sweet, 
pathetic  ring  of  Felicia's  tones.  It  would  have 
impressed  the  supremest  sceptic  with  her  truth. 
But  the  ego-maniac  is  scepticism  diseased — doubt 
robbed  of  all  logic.  Reginald  grew  infuriated. 

"Miss  Halstead  is  acting  delightfully,  as  the 
critics  say  she  always  acts,"  he  retorted  viciously. 
"  The  fact  remains  that  with  the  idiots  who  read 
the  newspapers,  it  is  her  name  that  appeals  to-day  ; 
not  mine.  That  is  where  the  mischief  comes  in. 
It  is  ruin  for  me— an  effort  to  knock  down  my 
splendid  edifice.  Oh,  yes,  I  believe  you,  Felicia 
Halstead.  How  we  should  enjoy  ourselves  at  the 
lakes — the  famous  young  actress — with  the  mori- 
bund actor." 

He  had  left  her  side  and  resumed  his  walk.  Her 
fair,  ingenuous  face  angered  him  now,  as  it  had 
piquantly  convinced  him  before.  He  had  loved 
her,  and  love  was  the  weapon  she  used. 

"  You  are  in  earnest  ?"  she  cried  at  last,  rising 
as  it  began  to  dawn  upon  her  that  this  was  tragedy, 
not  comedy.  "  You  are  in  earnest  ?  You  can 
really  believe  that  I  have  tried  to  rear  myself  in 
your  place  ?  You  can  think  that  a  woman  whose 
only  happy  moments  have  been  spent  in  your  arms 
— who  has  given  you  her  past,  her  present  and  her 
future, — can  prefer  the  theatre,  the  applause  of  the 
mob  ?  You,  who  know  me,  Reginald,  can  credit 
this  ?  No !  no !  no !  It  is  too  monstrous,  too 
absurd.  Do  I  know  the  critics  ?  Do  I  care  what 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  39 

they  say?  Do  I  ever  see  them,  or  read  them? 
Oh,  Reginald,  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

"  Spare  me  your  trashy  heroics,"  he  exclaimed, 
cold  with  indignation.  "  I  have  been  a  fool,  and  I 
see  it  all.  I  have  been  an  unsuspecting  fool,  and  I 
am  paying  the  penalty  of  my  criminal  blindness." 

Felicia  Halstead's  face  was  absolutely  blood- 
bereft.  Her  lips  whitely  outlined  her  mouth.  She 
trembled  violently. 

"Admitting  that  this  were  true,"  she  said,  in 
hardly  audible  tones,  "  supposing  that  I  were  like 
other  women  of  the  stage,  anxious  for  my  own  self- 
aggrandisement, — supposing  all  this,  Reginald  ; 
there  is  our  love  which  must  maka  the  case  differ- 
ent." 

He  burst  into  laughter.  "  Our  love  !  Our  love  ! 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ?  And  do  you  suppose  that  I  should 
allow  the  love  of  any  one  woman  to  interfere  with 
my  career  ?  Our  love,  forsooth  !  What  is  our 
love  ?  Merely  the  mutual  admiration  of  a  man 
and  a  woman.  What  is  my  career  ?  That  is  not 
usual.  That  is  extraordinary.  That  is  my  life. 
Our  love!  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Felicia  sank  back,  overpowered  by  this  brutality. 
The  ego-maniac  stamped  his  foot  to  emphasize  his 
vehemence.  The  overwhelming  of  the  woman  be- 
fore him  gave  him  some  slight  satisfaction.  His 
nature  was  sadistic,  as  well  as  ego-maniacal.  He 
revelled  in  his  own  cruelty. 

"  I  can  say  no  more,  Reginald,"  sobbed  Felicia, 
the  slow  tears  of  anguish  dripping  from  her  eyes 


40  His  Own  Image 

"  Something  has  happened  to  you.  You  see  things 
as  they  are  not.  It  is  hallucination.  It  must  be." 

She  rose  and  said  more,  nevertheless.  She  could 
not  bear  to  leave  him,  afflicted  and  insane.  "  You 
will  see  how  foolish  you  are,  dear,  when  you  think 
it  all  over.  Try  me  in  any  way  you  like.  Make 
me  a  '  super.'  Give  me  a  part  to  think,  and  not  to 
act.  Degrade  me — and  I  shall  never  complain." 

The  great  actor,  even  in  this,  saw  the  germs  of 
conspiracy.  "  And  you  would  set  the  gossips  talk- 
ing ?"  he  asked.  "  You  would  give  my  slanderers 
food  for  every  evil  accusation  ?  You  would  see  me 
charged  with  deliberately  humbling  a  woman 
who,  the  critics  say,  has  risen  from  the  ranks  ? 
No,  Felicia,  you  had  better  say  no  more. 
You  have  thrust  your  ingratitude  right  in  my  face. 
You  have  flaunted  your  vanity  in  front  of  the 
world.  You " 

Felicia  Halstead  stopped  his  further  utterances. 
She  went  to  him,  placing  one  trembling  hand  over 
his  mouth,  while  with  the  other  she  held  his  arm. 

"  It  is  not  true,"  she  said.  "  Nothing  is  true, 
except  that  I  love  you.  You  do  believe  this,  Regi- 
nald. You  must  believe  it.  I  shall  leave  you  now, 
but  when  you  send  for  me,  I  shall  come.  If  I 
could  suppress  those  dreadful  critics,  Reginald,  I 
would  do  it.  I  never  realized  their  power  before. 
I  never  believed  that  they  could  cause  a  man  to 
suspect  the  woman  he  has  loved,  and  who  loves 
him." 

She  turned  from  him,  seized  the  long  fluffy  boa 
and  the  hat  with  its  pins  from  the  table  upon  which 


Felicia  Makes  a  Hit  41 

she  had  thrown  them,  and  without  another  word 
opened  the  door  and  went  out.  The  mouldy  sec- 
retary, at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  mbled  away  as  he 
saw  her  coming.  She  never  noticed  him.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  she  passed  out. 

Upstairs,  the  great  actor,  walking  furiously  up 
and  down,  stopped  in  front  of  a  large  porcelain 
picture  of  his  late  leading  lady.  With  one  blow 
from  his  clenched  fist  he  broke  it  to  atoms.  That 
was,  to  him,  the  most  satisfactory  proceeding  of  the 
morning. 


Chapter  III 

REGINALD   DISSIMULATES 

THE  great  actor  walked  to  his  club,  in  order 
that  he  might  plunge  into  the  voluptuous  luxury  of 
hatred — one  of  the  most  piquant  satisfactions  of 
life.  He  felt  impelled  toward  the  club,  as  the  con- 
victed criminal  to  the  verdict  that  tells  him  the 
worst.  He  must  mingle  with  the  gossip-mongers 
and  the  scandal-brewers.  He  must  drink  the  very 
dregs  of  this  catastrophe,  and  see  what  he  could  do. 
He  must  dissimulate  as  usual ;  he  must  act  more 
realistically  than  ever.  And  to  the  ego-maniac 
there  is  as  much  glory  in  acting  off  the  stage  as 
there  is  on  it. 

He  saw  Felicia's  humid  face,  as  she  collapsed 
beneath  his  keen  shafts,  but  he  felt  no  compassion 
for  her.  Tears  to  him  were  as  valueless  as  laugh- 
ter. He  had  a  deep-rooted  disbelief  in  either.  She 
had  wept  because  she  had  been  detected  in  her 
surreptitious  designs.  He  bit  his  lips  in  anger  as 
he  recalled  her  words :  "  Make  me  a  super.  Give 
me  a  part  to  think — not  to  act."  How  well  she 
must  have  known  that  such  a  course  would  be  im- 
possible !  Though  he  would  have  liked  to  humble 
her  to  the  dust,  to  sink  her  to  the  lowest  depths  of 
[42] 


Reginald  Dissimulates  43 

uselessness,  he  would  not  dare  to  do  it.  And  she 
was  aware  of  that  fact. 

How  powerless  a  man  is  before  a  woman's  wiles! 
He  had  selected  Felicia  as  his  leading  lady  for 
the  simple  reason  that  he  had  faith  in  the  apparent 
colourlessness  of  her  nature.  She  would  never  do 
anything  of  any  consequence,  he  had  thought. 
And  he  had  sealed  the  bargain  by  loving  her — an 
arrangement  in  which  he  thought  that  body  would 
gradually  stamp  out  the  slightest  possibility  of 
soul.  And  now  the  net-work  of  his  schemes  was 
hopelessly  shattered.  Far  better  would  it  have 
been  for  him,  if  he  had  chosen  some  vulgar,  arro- 
gant woman,  who  would  have  overreached  herself 
at  the  end  of  the  first  season. 

The  public  prefers  the  woman  to  the  man.  This 
js  inevitable  in  man-governed  communities.  Great 
actors  cannot  be  too  careful.  Mr.  Rellerick  had 
taken  all  precautions — and  they  were  as  nothing. 

He  saw  his  own  name  in  huge  letters  on  the 
blank  walls,  and  shivered.  How  long  would  that 
name  flaunt  itself  through  the  thoroughfares  ?  And 
beneath  the  flaring  "  Reginald  Rellerick,"  in  tiny 
type,  almost  illegible  to  the  naked  eye,  was  his  lead- 
ing lady's  title.  If  type  means  anything,  Felicia 
Halstead  had  vanquished  it  completely. 

In  the  celebrity-shows  of  photographers'  win- 
dows were  his  own  portraits,  in  every  pose  conceiv- 
able. There  he  was  leaning  on  his  elbows,  stand- 
ing bolt  upright,  luxuriously  pillowed  in  a  chair, 
head  without  body,  head  with  body,  head  with  body 
and  legs.  There  were  no  pictures  of  Miss  HaU 


44  His  Own  Image 

stead.  In  the  photographers'  windows  he  was  the 
sole  sovereign.  He  realized  this  with  a  sudden 
flicker  of  pleasure.  Had  he  exaggerated  the  gravity 
of  the  situation  ?  He  stopped  in  front  of  the  most 
illustrious  photographic  display  and  contemplated 
himself  with  a  glad  sensation.  The  intellect  in  his 
face  had  never  appealed  to  him  more  convincingly. 
He  was  not  really  a  handsome  man,  but  his  features 
were  distinguished,  patrician,  cerebrally  entertain- 
ing. He  had  never  seen  a  head  as  perfect  as  his 
own.  What  a  forehead  !  What  eyes,  in  their 
slightly  sunken  enclosures !  What  a  fine  tempest 

of  hair!     What  a 

He  paused.  Two  youths  of  the  ."Piccadilly 
Johnnie  "  type  stood  by  his  side.  They  were  talk- 
ing. He  clutched  at  their  talk.  He  needed  some 
slight  consolation  from  the  outer  world. 

"  Did  you  see  the  play  last  night  ?"  asked  one, 
nodding  at  Rellerick's  portrait,  as  though  further 
explanation  were  unnecessary. 

"  Yes,"  responded  the  other,  "  I  saw  it  and  enjoyed 
it.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  Rellerick  is  going  off. 
I  never  cared  much  about  him,  but  somehow  or 
other  he  always  managed  to  be  the  play.  Last 
night  it  was  all  Felicia  Halstead.  Delightful  little 
girl,  don't  you  think  ?  I  tell  you  what,  old  chap, 
that  woman's  got  a  future.  If  she  will  only  cut 
herself  away  from  old  Rellerick  and  start  out  on 
her  own  account,  she'll  be  another  Ellen  Terry. 
Mark  my  words." 

"  I  bet  that  she  will  have  a  dozen  offers  before 
the  week  is  out,"  said  the  first.  «  Good  women  are 


Reginald  Dissimulates  45 

at  a  premium.     There  are  no  more  of  them.     They 
go  up  like  rockets,  and  come  down  like  sticks." 

"  I  say,  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to " 

They  moved  gradually  away.  The  last  words 
were  lost.  The  dialogue  fell  like  lead  on  Reginald 
Rellerick's  spirits.  He  stood  there  panting,  his 
breath  appearing  cloudily  on  the  window  pane,  his 
eyes  apparently  seeking  the  innermost  recesses  of 
the  shop.  He  had  listened,  by  the  merest  chance, 
to  a  fragment  of  desultory  conversation.  How 
many  similar  fragments  were  being  uttered  in  Lon- 
don at  that  very  moment  ?  The  metropolis  had 
organized  a  gigantic  and  devilish  conspiracy.  All 
London  was  pitted  against  him.  What  had  he 
done  ?  In  what  had  he  been  wanting  ?  What 
was  his  crime  ?  He  asked'  himself  these  questions, 
for  the  ego-maniacal  actor  never  believes  in  the 
spontaneity  of  an  adverse  opinion.  It  has  always 
been  bought,  or  plotted,  or  manufactured.  You 
can  lie  about  an  aQtor's  merits  until  you  are  blue 
in  the  face ;  until  you  sicken  at  the  nauseating 
mendacity.  He  will  fatten  on  it,  and  will  regard 
it  simply  as  a  necessary  tribute  to  unmistakable 
genius.  One  apparently  hostile  comment — and 
you  are  his  enemy  for  life.  To  the  actor  there  is 
truth  in  praise  only.  Censure  is  the  child  of  lies 
— lies,  villainous  lies. 

Every  trifle  irritated  him.  He  saw  people  buy- 
ing newspapers — simply  to  read  the  story  of  Fe- 
licia Halstead's  triumph  and  his  own  failure.  He  no- 
ticed on  a  "sandwich  man  "  a  magazine's  announce- 
ment of  "  Interviews  with  prominent  actresses," 


46  His  Own  Image 

and  he  writhed  at  the  idea  that  Felicia  might  ap- 
pear in  the  list.  He  passed  a  milliner's  shop  just 
in  time  to  see  the  sudden  birth  of  a  new  ticket, 
bearing  the  legend  "  The  Felicia  Halstcad  hat," 
and  he  realized  that  she  was  making  "  capital  "  out 
of  the  very  hat  that  he  himself  had  designed.  He 
heard  a  gamin  whistling  the  "  soft  music  "  that  had 
been  played  during  her  death  scene. 

Felicia  Halstead  was  in  the  air.  He  had  exag- 
gerated nothing.  All  London  was  busily  singing 
her  praises.  How  he  hated  her !  He  had  hated 
many  people  in  his  life — the  actor's  profession  is  a 
sort  of  manure  for  the  propagation  of  hatred — but 
he  had  never  felt  the  insanity  of  dislike  so  keenly 
as  he  did  at  present.  He  must  hide  it  all ....  he 
must  act ....  he  must  act. 

He  reached  his  club — a  dark-brown  institution 
for  actors  and  literary  men.  The  two  classes  are 
invariably  confused,  although  the  actor  is  scarcely 
closer  to  the  literary  men  than  are  the  fishmongers 
and  the  butchers.  The  club  was  not  very  far  from 
Drury  Lane  Theatre.  The  neighbourhood  was 
not  exhilarating ;  nor  was  the  club  for  the  matter 
of  that. 

It  resembled  a  mausoleum,  rather  than  the  vol- 
untary resort  of  cheerful  temperaments.  An  ob- 
sequious person  in  dingy  lackey-garb  took  the 
great  actor's  hat  and  coat,  and  closed  the  door 
after  him.  Reginald  entered  the  smoking-room— 
an  apartment  of  indescribably  dreary  aspect.  A 
few  of  those  caked-in  monstrosities  called  "  old 
masters  "  appeared  on  the  dark,  gloomily-papered 


Reginald  Dissimulates  47 

walls.  The  furniture  was  old  and  heavy,  full  of 
lethargic  reminiscences — souvenirs  of  days  that  had 
passed — suggestions  of  days  that  would  pass. 

Half-a-dozen  men  drank  brandy-and-soda  and 
smoked  pipes  in  silence.  It  was  a  convivial  club, 
without  a  symptom  of  conviviality.  Each  mem- 
ber looked  as  though  he  would  like  to  pounce 
upon  a  fellow-member's  throat  and  worry  the  life 
out  of  him.  They  were  all  pretending  to  read 
papers,  books  or  magazines.  Through  a  funereal 
window  dark  visions  of  blackest  London  appeared 
— the  London  of  chimney-tops,  squalid  rear  views, 
and  hopeless,  uncombed  civilization. 

A  gentleman  who  wrote  book  reviews  for  the 
Daily  Despair  was  glancing  at  a  flimsy  novel  by 
"  Gyp,"  and  scowling  ferociously,  as  clearly  unable 
to  make  head  or  tail  of  "  Gyp's  "  sallies  as  she  would 
have  been  to  wade  through  one  of  his  column  re- 
views. An  actor-manager  bitterly  opposed  to 
Rellerick  on  general  principles,  was  skimming 
through  an  article  entitled  "The  Drama  in  the  Dol- 
drums," and  nodding  his  head  approvingly.  Of 
course  the  drama  was  in  the  doldrums — it  richly 
deserved  to  be  in  the  doldrums — it  was  always  in 
the  doldrums — for  had  not  his  season  failed  ? 

A  "  hanger-on  "  was  apathetically  watching  the 
inhuman  faces  of  the  clubmen,  and  looking  at  his 
watch  occasionally  as  though  he  were  timing  the 
silence.  A  dramatic  critic,  who  never  wrote  any- 
thing bad  of  anybody — and  was  consequently  most 
amiably  despised — sat  there  contemptuously  alone. 
Another,  who  never  wrote  anything  good  of  any- 


48  His  Own  Image 

body  was  equally  unnoticed,  although  his  presence 
was  felt. 

And  from  one  of  the  London  slum-courts  came 
the  ironical  voice  of  an  urchin,  singing  "  We  are  a 
merry  family — we  are — we  are — we  are."  Nobody 
laughed.  In  a  London  club  humour  is  immoral 
and  suggestive.  Few  people  with  a  sense  of 
humour  would  belong  to  one  of  those  sepia-tinted 
organizations.  And  looking  at  these  people,  one 
wondered  what  they  would  do  in  a  brilliantly- 
lighted  room,  amid  a  company  of  wits  ;  how  they 
would  take  light-hearted  badinage ;  what  they 
would  say  if  you  poked  them  jocosely  in  the  ribs 
and  said  "  Bah !  bah  !  to  you." 

It  was  the  home  of  ego-mania  ;  the  grotto  of 
heavy  selfishness,  the  breeding-ground  of  conceit 
and  pomposity. 

Reginald  entered,  king  of  the  ego-maniacs.  They 
were  all  feasting  on  their  own  innards,  but  none 
enjoyed  the  repast  as  much  as  he.  They  were  all 
wallowing  swinily  in  their  own  self-consciousness, 
but  he  was  the  prime  wallower  of  all. 

As  he  entered,  a  concession  was  made  to  his 
greatness.  Books  and  magazines  were  cast  lightly 
aside.  The  members  nodded,  looked  at  him  atten- 
tively, sipped  their  brandy-and-sodas,  and  prepared 
to  rupture  the  membranous  silence. 

The  great  actor  saw  them  all  uneasily.  He  re- 
garded the  magazines  and  the  brandies  as  pre- 
tences. The  gentlemen  had  been  discussing  him  ; 
he  felt  perfectly  convinced  of  that.  If  they  had 
sworn  to  the  contrary  he  would  not  have  credited 


Reginald  Dissimulates  49 

their  words.  To  the  ego-maniac  there  is  but  one 
topic,  and  in  this  literary-dramatic  club  Reginald 
Rellerick  was  the  great  attraction.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  dreary  people  before  him 
might,  in  sheer  desperation,  be  enjoying  a  holiday 
and  thinking  of  something  else.  Of  what  else  was 
there  to  think  ? 

However,  this  dark  little  room  where  conviviality 
parodied  itself  daily,  was  merely  a  stage  to  the 
great  actor,  and  he  prepared  to  play  his  part  on  it 
as  artistically  as  possible.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the 
dramatic  critic  who  had  never  been  known  to  write 
anything  bad  of  anybody.  This  gentleman  was 
none  other  than  Winkle,  whose  crescendo  family 
Mr.  Rellerick  had  charged  himself  with  rewarding. 
But  just  now  Winkle  was  useless.  In  their  inner- 
most recesses,  actors  scorn  the  men  who  sugar-coat 
them  with  praise.  They  have  little  interest  in 
them.  The  praise-slingers  are  regarded  as  myrmi- 
dons, satellites,  flunkeys,  and  Mr.  Rellerick  saw 
poor  Winkle  without  the  slightest  pang  of  pleasure. 
You  and  I,  dear  reader,  workers  in  less  bewilder- 
ingly  heralded  walks  of  life  than  the  stage,  enjoy  a 
little  bit  of  praise,  and  beam  gratefully  upon  the 
beneficent  praise-giver.  He  is  a  ray  of  light  in  our 
darkness,  an  ounce  of  sweetness  in  our  pound  of 
bitter.  But  to  the  actor  he  is  a  tasteless  matter- 
of-course,  unworthy  of  grateful  consideration. 

Mr.  Rellerick  advanced  with  outstretched  hand 
to  Jobberlots,  the  censorious  one,  who  had  inciner- 
ated him  viciously  and  had  taken  particular  pains 
to  laud  Miss  Felicia  Halstead  £o  the  skies.  The 


50  His  Own  Image 

great  actor's  face  was  wreathed  in  pleasant  smiles  ; 
his  manner  was  cordiality  rampant.  He  was  de- 
lightfully eager ;  his  voice  was  sonorous  and  crev- 
ice-reaching. Jobberlots  trembled  in  his  boots  and 
felt  about  an  inch  and  a  half  high. 

"  I  want  to  thank  you,"  said  the  actor-liar,  warmly, 
"  for  your  splendidly-written  review  of  my  poor  lit- 
tle production  in  this  morning's  paper.  No,"  lift- 
ing up  his  hand  playfully,  as  Jobberlots  began  to 
stammer  unmeaning  words,  "  do  not  interrupt  me, 
my  dear  sir.  I  am  not  one  of  those  lamentably 
blind  actors  who  can  see  nothing  in  a  critic's  work 
unless  it  be  fulsome  commendation.  Every  man 
is  entitled  to  his  own  opinion,  Mr.  Jobberlots.  I 
have  always  valued  yours.  You  are  so  frank,  so 
outspoken,  so  delightfully  just  with  it  all." 

As  he  spoke  the  pins  of  keenest  hatred  were 
sticking  in  the  vitals  of  the  great  actor.  If  he  could 
have  shrivelled  up  poor  Jobberlots  instantly,  he 
would  have  done  it,  provided  that  there  had  been 
none  there  to  see  the  deed. 

"  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  us  all,"  he 
said,  speaking  at  the  assemblage  vid  the  critic,  "  if 
it  were  not  for  you  gentlemen  of  the  press.  How 
I  laughed,  how  I  chuckled — when  you  likened  me 
to  a  vulture  picking  the  bones  of  everyone  who  ap- 
proached the  centre  of  the  stage.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  I 
hope  I  can  enjoy  a  joke  even  at  my  own  expense, 
Mr.  Jobberlots.  I  can  always  appreciate  that  which 
is  clever." 

Reginald  laughed  in  the  most  apparently  affable 
manner.  He  deceived  the  "  hanger-on  "  who  had 


Reginald  Dissimulates  51 

been  timing  everything.  His  contagious  humour 
affected  the  arid  Daily  Despair  reviewer,  who  had 
been  thinking  up  adjectives  for  the  demolition  of 
poor  "  Gyp."  Even  the  actor-manager  felt  that 
here  was  a  superior  person  with  a  soul  above  mere 
selfish  considerations.  The  ego-maniac  is  the  most 
dangerous  maniac  of  all.  If  he  had  guards  or 
keepers — which  he  should  have — he  would  be  quite 
capable  of  gulling  them  all. 

"  I  tried  to  tell  the  truth,  sir,"  murmured  poor 
Jobberlots  unsteadily.  He  hated  meeting  the 
people  he  had  been  forced  to  criticise,  but  he 
bowed  to  the  inevitable. 

"  And  you  succeeded  admirably,"  was  the  mag- 
nanimous retort ;  "  I  want  to  thank  you  particu- 
larly," here  he  raised  his  voice  so  that  even  the 
menials  outside  could  hear  him,  "  for  your  splendid 
tribute  to  my  dear  friend  and  associate,  Felicia 
Halstead.  Ah,  Mr.  Jobberlots,  there  is  a  girl  who 
richly  deserves  to  be  encouraged.  I  have  recog- 
nized her  abilities  for  some  time,  and  I  was  deter- 
mined that  they  should  have  an  opportunity  this 
time.  That  is  why  I  selected  Pinerville's  play. 
My  judgment  was  evidently  good,  you  will  allow 
me  to  say  it,  my  dear  Mr.  Jobberlots — for  I  am 
quite  sure  that  Miss  Halstead  impressed  the  public 
very  favourably.  Am  I  not  right  ?" 

Poor  Jobberlots  fell.  He  was  gulled  into 
enthusiasm. 

"You  are  right,  Mr.  Rellerick,"  he  said. 
"  Everybody  to  whom  I  spoke  seemed  to  think 
that  there  was  was  a  splendid  future  for  her.  She 


His  Own  Image 


surprised  the  audience.  All  London  is  talking  of 
her  to-day." 

There  are  some  feats  that  are  impossible  even 
to  the  most  accomplished  actor-liars.  Even  an 
Irving  or  a  Bernhardt  meets  limitations.  Mr.  Rel- 
lerick  met  his  at  this  moment.  Jobberlots'  ready 
enthusiasm  overwhelmed  him.  For  a  moment  he 
was  dumb,  paralyzed  by  the  horror  of  the  Damo- 
clesian  sword  that  seemed  suddenly  to  have  fallen 
on  his  head. 

It  was  Winkle  who  brought  him  to  his  senses  — 
Winkle  with  the  crescendo  family  and  the  miser- 
able pittance  of  a  salary.  "  Miss  Halstead  has  bet- 
ter opportunities  in  this  play,"  said  Winkle,  "  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  a  dummy  could  have  made  an 
impression  under  such  very  favourable  circum- 
stances." 

The  great  actor  made  a  mental  note  of  further 
instructions  to  Mr.  Crampton  on  the  subject  of  this 
promising  person.  Outwardly,  however,  he  cast 
glances  of  serene  contempt  upon  poor  Winkle,  and 
declined  to  address  him. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  continued  pointedly  to 
Jobberlots,  "  that  my  dear  friend  and  associate, 
Felicia,  would  be  quite  justified  in  '  starring  '  on 
the  top  of  this  unprecedented  success  ?  I  do. 
Not  for  the  world  would  I  interfere  with  her  pro-. 
gress.  Only  this  morning  I  said  to  her,  '  My  dear 
Miss  Halstead,  if  I  were  you  I  should  organize  a 
company  of  my  own  ;  I  will  give  you  the  pecuniary 
backing  that  is  necessary.'  I  quoted  to  her  the 
hackneyed  but  always  appropriate  lines  about  the 


Reginald  Dissimulates  53 

'  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men.'  Ah,  Shakespeare  was 
a  genius,  my  dear  Jobberlots.  He  addressed  you 
and  me,  and  our  children  and  our  grandchildren." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?"  asked  Jobberlots,  scent- 
ing a  "  paragraph  "  for  his  Saturday's  "amusement " 
column. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you  that  she  disagreed  with 
me,"  continued  the  actor-liar,  puckering  his  brows 
as  though  in  pain.  "  She  says — like  our  friend 
Winkle  "(here  he  acknowledged  the  luckless  praise- 
thrower  with  an  uplifted,  dramatic  hand),  "  that  her 
success  was  simply  chance.  And  I  positively  be- 
lieve that  she  looked  upon  me  as  the  impetus  to 
that  success.  Silly  girl!  Foolish  Felicia  !  Women 
are  such  odd  creatures,  Mr.  Jobberlots.  You  can 
argue  with  them  until  you  choke,  without  convin- 
cing them  in  the  least.  I  told  her  plainly  that  there 
was  positive  genius  in  her  work,  but  she  laughed.in 
my  face.  That  is  my  conviction,  however.  And 
I  may  add  that  I  was  scarcely  myself  last  night, 
for  I  was  simply  lost  in  admiration  of  her  perfect 
performance." 

"  My  dear  Rellerick,"  said  the  Daily  Despair  re- 
viewer, deluded  into  cordial  sympathy,  "  your  sen- 
timents do  you  credit.  I  only  wish  that  some  of 
the  fools  who  are  always  crying  out  about  stage 
jealousies  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  were  present. 
It  does  me  good  to  hear  an  actor  of  your  promi- 
nence so  warmly  advocating  the  merits  of  a  leading 
lady." 

"  What  is  the  use  of  being  unjust  ?"  asked  the 
great  actor  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "  The 


54  His  Own  Image 

public  judges.  Besides,  an  artist  is  in  love  with 
art  wherever  he  finds  it.  If  I  had  seen  Miss  Hal- 
stead  act  in  any  one's  else  company  I  should  have 
immediately  engaged  her.  I  can't  afford  to  have 
mediocrities  in  my  support,  my  dear  Twiston. 
By-the-by,  did  you  see  the  play  last  night  ?  I  told 
Smithson  to  send  you  a  couple  of  stalls.  I  shall  be 
very  vexed  if  I  hear  that  he  didn't." 

"  Oh,  I  was  there,"  remarked  Twiston,  "  and  I 
enjoyed  it  immensely." 

"And  you  agree  of  course," — Reginald  tried  to 
keep  the  flood  of  anxiety  from  pouring  into  his 
voice,  "  that  Felicia  distinguished  herself  very  sig- 
nally ?  However  there  can  be  no  two  opinions." 
(The  anxiety  conquered.  It  swept  itself  in  billows 
over  Reginald's  tones,  and  he  waited,  fervently  in- 
terrogative). 

"  Most  certainly,"  was  Twiston's  verdict.  "  If 
there  ever  was  a  clever  girl,  her  name  is  Felicia 
Halstead.  Admirable,  my  dear  Rellerick,  admir- 
able. I  should  like  to  see  her  in  some  of  the  old 
comedies.  What  a  magnificent  Lady  Teazle  she 
would  make.  Think  of  her  as  Miss  Hardcastle. 
And  I  don't  believe  that  Shakespeare  is  beyond 
her.  She  is  young  enough  to  make  a  most  sympa- 
thetic Juliet  or  Rosalind.  In  fact,  in  my  opinion, 
she  is  a  budding  genius." 

The  "  hanger-on  "  put  up  his  watch  and  joined 
the  discussion.  Said  he  :  "  Felicia  Halstead  is  one 
of  those  women  who, — like  murder — will  out.  You 
couldn't  down  her.  You  couldn't  keep  her  in  the 
background.  With  women  of  that  sort  it  is  only  a 


Reginald  Dissimulates  55 

question  of  time  and  opportunity.  I  wonder  if 
you  could  arrange  an  interview  with  her  for  me? 
I  believe  that  the  Weekly  Lampoon  would  be  glad 
to  take  it.  And  it  would  be  doing  the  girl  a  good 
turn,  don't  you  think?" 

Reginald  Rellerick  winced.  The  "hanger-on" 
had  one  specialty,  and  that  was  "  interviewing." 
He  could  make  a  fool  interesting.  He  had  a  cer- 
tain bright  and  readable  "style"  that  gave  force 
to  the  most  banal  subjects.  What  could  he  not  do 
with  Felicia  Halstead,  already  pinnacling  herself 
in  London  ?  What  fame  might  not  she  win  with  the 
aid  of  a  leisurely  and  enthusiastic  pen  such  as  that 
wielded  by  the  "  hanger-on  ?"  The  .great  actor's 
cup  of  bitterness  had  been  filled  to  the  point  of 
overflowing.  The  "  hanger-on  "  had  supplied  the 
one  drop  too  much.  It  was  cruelty.  It  was  tor- 
ture. And  in  Reginald's  heart  his  hatred  for  the 
offending  leading  lady  swelled  and  rankled  more 
oppressively  than  ever.  He  had  no  fixed  policy  in 
his  mind,  as  he  entered  the  club.  His  sole  object 
was  to  hear  the  truth — the  horrible  truth.  And  he 
had  hoped  desperately  that  things  would  not  be  as 
bad  as  he  had  imagined.  He  had  clutched  at  this 
thin  wisp  of  hope,  and  behold  it  had  given  way  in 
his  hands.  His  mind  was  in  a  chaos  of  emotion. 
If  his  policy  had  been  unsettled  that  morning,  it 
was  even  more  disastrously  confused  at  the  present. 
There  was  no  longer  a  redeeming  doubt.  Cold, 
deliberate  minds  had  sanctioned  Felicia's  success. 
She  had  been  applauded  not  only  by  the  fools  in 
an  audience,  but  by  his  grave,  disinterested  club- 


56  His  Own  Image 

fellows.  He  had  played  his  part  and  the  effort  had 
left  him  exhausted.  He  had  nothing  further  to 
learn.  The  ugly  knowledge  of  the  worst  had  come 
easily,  even  gracefully.  He  ordered  a  brandy-and- 
soda,  and  ensconced  himself  in  a  corner  with  a  news- 
paper containing  an  article  headed  "  London  has 
an  actress  at  last." 

It  will  afford  me  great  pleasure,"  he  said,  dis- 
mally, to  the  "  hanger-on  "  before  plunging  into 
the  atrocious  newspaper,  "  to  mention  you  to  Miss 
Halstead.  I  should  very  much  like  you  to  see  her 
and  talk  with  her.  I  will  do  all  that  I  can.  Felicia 
is  a  strange  girl,  however,  and  she  is  very  afraid  of 
journalists.  She  may  dislike  the  sudden  promi- 
nence of  an  '  interview.'  But  rest  assured,  my  dear 
sir,  that  I  shall  try  to  talk  her  out  of  her  foolish 
scruples." 

Reginald  invited  no  further  words'!  He  sank 
behind  his  newspaper  and  relaxed  the  tension  of 
his  face.  How  changed  he  was  from  the  riant, 
courtly,  interested  actor,  acting  so  vigorously  a  few 
moments  before  !  His  face  was  hidden.  He  was 
almost  afraid  that  the  devilish  look  of  hatred,  with 
its  accompanying  outlines  and  eye-contortions, 
would  pierce  through  the  flimsy  sheet.  His  jaw 
dropped  and  he  sat  there  unable  to  read  an  intel- 
ligible word  of  "  London  has  an  actress  at  last." 

The  club  gentlemen  resumed  their  occupations. 
The  book  reviewer  made  another  attack  upon 
"  Gyp."  The  actor-manager,  who  had  been  a  silent 
but  interested  auditor,  took  another  plunge  into 
the  doldrums  which  surrounded  the  drama.  The 


Reginald  Dissimulates  57 

'  hanger-on  "  began  to  time  things  again,  and  the 
critics  drank  more  brandy-and-soda  in  nonchalant 
enjoyment. 

Others  came  in,  but  Reginald  forgot  to  greet 
them.  There  he  sat,  watching  the  afternoon 
shadows  creep  over  the  mud-colored  carpet  ;  sur- 
veying the  crusty  old  masters  an  their  saturnine 
decay  on  the  walls,  but  still  apparently  reading  that 
fateful,  "  London  has  an  actress  at  last." 

The  voluptuous  luxury  of  hatred  ceased  to  be 
luxury,  and  twisted  itself  into  agony.  He  stood  it 
as  long  as  he  could,  until  the  beads  of  anguish 
forced  themselves  from  his  forehead,  each  opening 
pore  hurting  like  a  newly-made  puncture. 

Then  he  went  away  through  darkening  London, 
and  walked  through  the  dim,  gray  streets  in  a  tu- 
mult of  pain  such  as  a  sane  man  never  knows — one 
of  those  tumults  that  are  reserved  exclusively  for 
the  abnormal  type  we  call  the  ego-maniac. 


Chapter  IV 

THE  HORROR  OF  SUCCESS. 

MRS.  LANDINGTON  sat  at  the  little  round  table 
in  the  Netting  Hill  dining-room  awaiting  the  ar- 
rival of  Felicia.  The  muslin  ruching  round  her 
neck  stood  bolt  upright,  as  though  prepared  to  re- 
sist any  attacks.  At  the  top  of  the  fleshly  tobog- 
gan-slide that  began  under  her  chin,  glistened  the 
cameo  brooch  that  had  the  extinct  husband's  hair 
at  the  back.  Mrs.  Landington  was  a  picture  of 
lower-class  righteousness.  Her  black  alpaca  dress 
"  made  at  home,"  fitted  her  closely,  and  on  her 
head  she  wore  a  respectable  cap  that  seemed  to  sit 
there  defiantly. 

On  the  table  was  a  particularly  venomous  look- 
ing mutton  stew — very  thick  and  aggressively 
nourishing,  while  on  the  adjacent  sideboard  reigned 
an  evil  bread  pudding  of  poultice-like  consistency 
and  generally  unpromising  aspect.  Felicia  was 
late,  and  Mrs.  Landington  was  cross.  The  lower 
classes  in  London  may  be  morally  lax,  grotesquely 
uncultured,  and  severely  inartistic,  but  they  are 
always  punctual  at  meal-time.  Meals  are  the  great 
regulators  of  existence,  in  their  minds,  and  to  keep 
L58J 


The  Horror  of  Success  59 

a  dinner  waiting  shows  a  criminally  disarranged 
organisation. 

So  she  sat  there,  Nemesis-like,  as  she  heard 
Felicia's  latch-key  fumbling  at  the  outside  lock. 
Nothing  would  induce  her  to  stir  from  her  seat. 
Her  almost  pneumatic  bust  tightened  itself,  and 
she  was  quite  prepared  to  say  uncharitable  things, 
as  she  saw  Felicia  enter. 

She  changed  her  mind  rapidly,  however.  Miss 
Halstead's  eyes  were  inflamed  as  though  with  weep- 
ing ;  her  nose  was  purple  (Mrs.  Landington  won- 
dered why  she  hadn't  used  the  powder  which  every 
well-regulated  woman  carries  in  her  handkerchief), 
and  as  she  flung  aside  her  boa  and  tossed  her  hat 
upon  the  sofa,  it  was  very  easy  to  see  that  some- 
thing had  happened. 

Mrs.  Landington  waited.  She  forgot  the  sinis- 
ter stew  and  the  morbid  pudding.  Something  had 
occurred  between  the  girl  and  her  "  employer,"  and 
perhaps  the  situation  was  grave.  Mrs.  Landington 
had  an  easy  job — as  the  saying  is — and  she  lived  in 
mortal  dread  of  events  that  might  jeopardize  it. 

"  I  can't  eat  any  dinner  to-day,  Landy,"  said 
Felicia,  sitting  down  and  plunging  her  head  into 
her  hands.  "  I'm  too  much  upset.  Mr.  Rellerick 
has  been  very  unkind — and — and — 

She  burst  into  tears  and  kept  her  face  well  hid- 
den in  her  hands.  Mrs.  Landington  looked  at  her 
in  amazement.  A  dreary  dread  of  something  that 
might  send  her  out  into  the  cold,  cold  world,  the 
world  in  which  there  were  no  mutton  stews  and 
bread  puddings,  arose  within  her.  She  waited  a 


6o  His  Own  Image 

few  minutes  longer,  hoping  that  Felicia's  tears 
would  cease  and  that  an  explanation  would  be 
forthcoming.  Then  curiosity,  urged  on  by  the  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  took  bodily  possession 
of  her. 

"  I  do  'ope,"  she  said,  "  that  nothing  has  'appened 
of  a  serious  nature,  my  dear.  You  aren't  in  danger 
of  losing  your  situation,  are  you  ?  You  'ave  a  nice 
post,  you  know.  When  I  think  of  the  girls  that  'as 
to  stand  be'ind  counters  all  day,  until  their  very 
legs  are  dropping  under  them — and  not  even  al- 
lowed a  glass  of  stimulants,  such  as  we  all  need — 
when  I  think  of  them,  I  hoften  says  to  myself  that 
you  should  be  grateful.  You  'aven't  been  riling 
'im,  'ave  you  ?  Employers  are  tantalizing  persons 
— Oh,  I  know — but  they  must  'ave  their  way.  And 
it's  right  they  should.  They  pay  the  salaries  and 
foot  the  bills.  And  I  will  say  for  Mr.  Rellerick  that 
he  grudges  you  nothing.  '  Give  her  the  fat  of  the 
land,  Mrs.  Landington,'  he's  told  me  time  and  again. 
And  I  try  to  do  it,  my  dear.  Nothing  is  saved. 
Every  penny — every  ha'penny  he  gives  me— goes 
for  the  table." 

Felicia  scarcely  heard  Mrs.  Landington's  squalid 
remarks.  They  buzzed  in  her  ears  ;  that  is  all. 
She  was  too  completely  overwhelmed  by  the  force 
of  the  double  catastrophe  that  had  fallen  upon  her- 
self and  upon  her  actor. 

"  I'm  sure  he's  a  kind  gentleman,"  continued  the 
housekeeper,  "and  means  well.  You  musn't  mind 
'im  if  'e's  been  cross.  Business  is  business,  my  dear. 
It's  'ard  on  the  men.  Don't  I  know  it  ?  Why,  my 


The  Horror  of  Success  61 

poor  Thomas  was  often  beside  'imself,  when  we  'ad 
that  little  butcher's  shop  down  Dalston  way.  Many 
a  night  'ave  I  cried  myself  to  sleep,  when  'e  's  gone 
out,  and  called  me  a  chattering  old  cat,  and  other 
'orrid  names.  And  if  a  man  with  a  butcher's  shop 
takes  on  so,  why  it's  no  more  than  natural  that  a 
gentleman  with  a  big  theatre  on  his  'ands,  should 
be  out  o'  sorts  occasionally — what  with  sceneries, 
and  hactors,  and  all  the  expenses  to  pay,  not  for- 
getting 'eat  and  gas." 

Felicia  gave  no  heed  to  the  querulous  suggestions. 
She  heard  indistinct  sounds  of  "  butcher's  shop  " 
and  "  big  theatre  "  but  they  could  not  wean  her 
from  the  topic  of  her  mind. 

"  It's  silly  crying  like  that, "persisted  Mrs.  Land- 
ington,  losing  her  temper.  "  Perhaps  some  folks 
wants  something  to  cry  about.  Three  meals  a  day, 
and  a  nice  salary  paid  regular  every  Toosdy,  isn't 
to  be  sneezed  at.  I'm  surprised  at  you.  It's  un- 
grateful, and  you  a-sending  money  every  week  to 
your  sisters  in  Lancashire — all  out  of  Mr.  Rellerick. 
And  there  you  sit  snivelling  like  a  booby,  just  be- 
cause he  has  said  '  Boo.'  I'm  ashamed  of  you. 
And  'ere's  dinner  cold  as  ice,  and  me  a-getting  faint 
for  want  of  a  bit  or  bite." 

But  the  housekeeper  was  uneasy  in  spite  of  her 
brave  words.  She  helped  herself  to  a  dish  of  the 
glutinous  stew,  but  she  failed  to  cat  it.  She  sat 
watching  Felicia.  Suddenly  herfearassumed  shape. 
She  struck  the  table  with  her  knife  and  fork,  and 
her  face  changed  colour. 

"  I  know  what  it  is,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  know  it. 


62  His  Own  Image 

You've  been  and  given  'im  notice,  all  on  account  of 
a  little  fuss.  You  'ave.  You  know  you  'ave.  And 
if  it's  true,  where  am  I  ?  I  ask  :  where  am  I,  with 
nothing  to  me  name  but  me  clothes,  and  a  pound 
or  two  in  the  saving's  bank  ?" 

Felicia  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face  and 
looked  wearily  at  the  flabby  creature  in  front  of 
her.  Was  all  the  world  selfish  ?  Did  the  universe 
revolve  around  one  single  self-pivot  ? 

"  I  can't  forget  it,  Landy,  I  can't  forget  it,"  she 
said,  the  tears  still  splashing  down  her  cheeks,  and 
an  urgent  desire  for  sympathy  manifesting  itself, 
strangely  and  unusually.  "He  says  that  I  am  try- 
ing to  supplant  him,  and — and — I  can't  endure  it. 
I  love  him  so." 

Mrs.  Landington  clutched  the  cameo  brooch  at 
her  breast,  as  though  her  extinct  husband's  hair  at 
its  back  had  suddenly  tickled  her. 

"  You  love  'im  !"  she  gasped,  "  You  love  'im  ! 
Well,  I  like  that.  Did  I  hear  you  say  you  love  'im  ? 
Oh,  tell  me  I've  made  a  mistake.  I  can't  believe 
it.  You  love  your  employer  ?  And  perhaps  you've 
told  'im  so  ?  Oh,  it's  all  as  clear  as  a  pikestaff. 
Miss  Felicia  'Alstead,  you're  a  fool  for  your  pains, 
and  I  tell  you  so,  as  p'r'aps  shouldn't." 

Felicia  laughed  at  last.  It  was  a  bitter,  defiant 
laugh,  but  it  was  a  relief  from  the  abjectly  wet  sen- 
sation of  tears.  She  heard  Mrs.  Landington 's  re- 
marks on  "  love,"  and  they  gave  a  piquant  zest  to 
the  situation.  And  she  laughed  again — still  more 
defiantly.  The  allusion  to  love  had  acted  as  a  sort 
of  red  flag  waved  in  front  of  a  bewildered  bull. 


The  Horror  of  Success  63 

"  Yes,  I  love  him,"  she  said, her  eyes  aglow,  "and 
he  knows  it,  and  if  you  were  not  as  blind  as  a  bat, 
you  silly  old  thing,  you  would  know  it,  too.  And 
I  would  just  as  soon  that  you  did.  I  wish  all  the 
world  knew  it.  I'd  like  to  publish  it  in  the  papers. 
If  I  were  his  wife  he  wouldn't  dare  to  think  such 
horrid  things  about  me.  And  I  ought  to  be  his 
wife.  Yes,  Landy,  I  ought  to  be  his  wife,  and  you 
can  be  as  shocked  as  you  like  about  it.  I  don't 
care.  Sit  there  and  gape  at  me.  That's  right — 
gape — gape — gape.  Landy,  I  shall  throw  a  spoon 
at  you  in  a  minute.  I  know  I  shall.  I  can't 
help  it." 

The  housekeeper  might  have  had  a  paralytic 
stroke.  Her  jaw  had  dropped  until  it  evinced  an 
inclination  to  career  down  the  toboggan  slide  that 
began  at  her  chin.  Her  eyes  were  rounded  and 
bulging.  Her  bosom  threatened  to  burst  its  way 
through  the  black  alpaca  that  was  stretched  tensely 
from  shoulder  to  shoulder.  She  made  one  or  two 
ineffectual  efforts  to  speak.  She  was  tongue-tied. 

Felicia  looked  at  her  in  amusement.  It  was  a 
satisfaction  to  spray  the  painful  situation  at  this 
typical  lower-class  matron. 

Mrs.  Landington  laboured  and  brought  forth 
words.  They  were  characteristic  of  her  class. 
Ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  lower-class  London 
matrons  would  have  said  precisely  the  same  thing. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  managed  to  cry  hoarsely, 
"  I  see  it  all.  You  ought  to  be  married,  you 
say.  That  means  one  thing.  You  want  him — your 
good  kind  employer — to  be  the  father  of  your 


64  His  Own  Image 

child.  Oh,  the  'orrid  scheme  that  we  read  of  in 
the  papers  every  day  of  our  lives." 

Felicia  blushed.  A  wave  of  pink  blood  tinged 
her  face,  neck  and  ears.  She  was  used  to  the 
lower  classes,  which,  in  cases  of  this  kind,  look  for 
one  result  only,  and  that  very  immediate.  Mrs. 
Landington  could  sit  still  no  longer.  She  heaved 
herself  from  her  chair,  and  went  and  stood  like  a 
monument  in  front  of  the  girl.  And  through  her 
lower-class  brain  surged  all  the  vulgar  possibilities, 
all  the  sordid  aspects  of  the  question,  all  its  flam- 
boyant immorality,  unrelieved  by  a  solitary  wisp  of 
humanity. 

"  Landy,  don't  be  foolish,"  said  Felicia  stupidly, 
a  trifle  upset  by  the  storm  that  she  had  raised. 
"  You  don't  understand.  You  don't  understand. 
Reginald  loves  me  and  I  love  him.  There  is  no 
other  question.  He  was  very  cruel  to  me  this 
morning,  and  I  was  very,  very  grieved.  If  we  were 
married  it  would  be  different,  because  nothing 
could  take  him  away  from  me.  As  it  is — as  it  is — 
he  will  never  believe  that  I  am  the  most  unambi- 
tious girl  in  the  world,  and  that  I  want  nothing  but 
his  love." 

"  And  more  shame  of  you  to  say  it  " — the  house- 
keeper spat  out  the  words — "  you,  with  a  batch  of 
good  sensible  sisters  in  Lancashire.  A  pretty 
kettle  of  fish,  and  no  mistake  !  No  wonder  he  was 
cross,  poor  fellow.  I  'ates  designing  girls.  No 
good  ever  comes  to  'em.  Such  goings-on  I've 
never  heard  of,  except  in  the  newspapers.  A  nice 
look-out  for  you,  with  a  baby  on  your  'ands.  And 


The  Horror  of  Success  65 

I  suppose  I  shall  be  expected  to  look  after  you 
both  and — " 

"Oh,  no,  no,  Landy,"  cried  poor  Felicia  in  gen- 
uine distress.  "  It  isn't  so.  It  isn't  so.  I  wish  it 
were,  for  Regiuald  is  so  good,  and  so  kind,  and — 
and—" 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  in  sheer  helplessness 
threw  her  arms  around  the  fat  housekeeper  and 
sobbed  on  the  monumental  bosom  that  began  at 
the  cameo  brooch.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  com- 
fort in  a  black  alpaca  bust.  It  is  always  a  grateful 
cushion  for  grief. 

Felicia  sobbed  in  continuous  despair,  with  the 
persistent  "picture  of  Reginald's  contempt  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  unceasing  remembrance  of  Reg- 
inald's words,  phonographically  monotonous,  in 
her  ears.  Not  for  an  instant  did  a  tinge  of  tri- 
umph at  her  unsought  success,  stain  her  thoughts. 
She  looked  upon  it  as  a  calamity,  because  it  tore 
from  her  the  sympathies  of  her  actor.  And  as  she 
sobbed,  she  thought  of  the  very  different  sensations 
with  which  other  girls  would  have  surveyed  the 
situation.  Women  steal,  and  sin,  and  sell  them- 
selves, for  just  such  "  honours "  as  had  come  to 
her,  unasked.  It  was  the  irony  of  a  "  fearful  con- 
catenation of  circumstances."  Why  was  she  un- 
like other  women  ?  Why  was  she  unable  to  revel 
in  the  barren  joy  of  what  the  world  calls  success  ? 
Why  was  there  no  voluptuous  bliss  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  a  mob  of  unkempt,  middle-class,  mutton- 
eating  Londoners  was  at  her  feet  ?  Was  not  this 
the  goal  for  which  humanity  strives  ?  Was  she  not 


66  His  Own  Image 

well  aware  that  man  slaves  his  life  away  and  casts 
off  the  creature  comforts  just  to  secure  that  pin- 
nacle of  egotism  which  the  mob  alone  can  crown  ? 

And  Felicia  wept  on,  as  she  realized  her  own 
old-fashioned  femininity.  She  knew  that  she  was 
weak  and  behind  the  times  and  unpractical  and 
unpardonable.  She  saw  her  own  clinging  nature 
as  an  infirmity — which,  of  course,  it  was,  for  the 
clinging  woman  to-day  is  ridiculous  to  our  new- 
fangled ideas.  It  was  true,  as  the  squalid  house- 
keeper had  remarked,  that  her  Lancashire  relatives 
hung  upon  her  earnings,  and  tugged  at  her  purse. 
The  larger  her  pecuniary  gains  the  more  exultant 
grew  her  relatives.  Yet  she  could  find  but  feeble 
pleasure  in  this  thought.  The  mere~fact  that  she 
owned  sisters— as  to  whose  appearance  in  this 
troublesome  world  she  had  not  been  consulted — 
was  not  one  to  influence  her  largely.  The  tender 
fibres  of  her  being  cried  out  for  the  sympathy  of 
Reginald  Rellerick,  the  man  to  whom  she  had 
given  her  girlhood,  the  being  for  whose  approval 
she  would  have  dispensed  with  the  cheap,  mad 
plaudits  of  hungry  London. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  there  had  ever  been  a 
difference  between  them.  She  had  aimed  for  suc- 
cess in  order  to  reach  it  with  him,  and  in  an  en- 
deavour to  please  him.  He  was  bound  for  that 
goal,  and  it  was  not  her  intention  to  lag  behind. 
But  the  goal  in  itself  was  as  useless  and  as  despic- 
able to  her,  as  it  was  necessary  and  adorable  to 
him.  She  had  tried  to  be  his  shadow — the  dark, 
inseparable  duplicate  that  the  light  throws  out  in 


The  Horror  of  Success  67 

keen  relief.  What  horror  of  fate  was  it  that  tried 
to  bring  her  forward  as  the  substance  ?  Poor  Fe- 
licia! I  say  "  poor  Felicia  "  although  I  am  not  at 
all  sure  she  will  win  anybody's  sympathy.  The  one 
clinging  woman  among  a  hundred  frenzied  bread- 
winners, may  perhaps  understand  her  sorry  plight. 
The  others  will  call  her  a  fool  for  her  pains.  Ac- 
cording to  the  worldly  estimate  of  to-day  she  was 
undoubtedly  a  fool. 

Through  Mrs.  Landington's  heavy  embonpoint, 
gaudily  vulgar  sensations  surged.  Felicia  wept, 
and  Mrs.  Landington  thought.  Mrs.  Landington, 
nursed  in  the  canny  lap  of  Whitechapelism,  knew 
that  two  and  two  invariably  made  four.  The  rude 
logic  of  her  greasy  temperament  was  infallible. 
She  had  been  deeply  chagrined,  for  personal  rea- 
sons, by  Miss  Halstead's  revelation,  but  as  she 
watched  the  weeping  girl  and  felt  her  tears  as  they 
drippe'd  through  the  black  alpaca  to  the  rigid, 
righteous  corset  beneath,  she  was  convinced  that 
this  force  could  be  utilized  just  as  well  as  any  other. 
Mrs.  Landington  gradually  grew  to  perceive  that 
all  was  not  lost.  Things  might  be  "  rotten  in  the 
state  of  Denmark  "  but  they  could  be  patched  into 
a  semblance  of  integrity. 

The  housekeeper  in  Netting  Hill  was  a  philoso- 
pher in  her  way.  She  had  been  in  contact  with  the 
rough  edges  of  the  world.  That  fact  brews  a  phil- 
osopher very  readily. 

She  made  no  effort  to  shake  Felicia's  gilded 
tresses  from  the  sable  fortifications  upon  which  they 
rested.  Miss  Halstead  should  cry  to  her  heart's 


68  His  Own  Image 

content,  and  then,  when  the  intensity  of  her  emo- 
tion had  become  relaxed,  she  would  be  all  the  more 
likely  to  listen  to  that  logic  which  is  the  logic  of 
pounds,  shillings  and  pence.  There  were  no  fine 
sensations  in  Mrs.  Landington's  make-up.  She 
was  spectacularly  sordid,  picturesquely  squalid, 
overwhelmingly  lower-class.  While  Felicia  cried, 
she  carefully  matured  her  plans. 

The  young  actress'  tears  were  at  last  exhausted, 
and  she  paused,  pale  and  debilitated.  The  house- 
keeper plied  her  with  a  glass  of  that  lower-London 
luxury,  known  as  "ginger  wine,"  invaluable  alike 
for  pains  in  the  stomach  and  heart.  Then  she 
opened  fire. 

"I  do  'ope,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  not  angry 
with  me,  Miss  'Alstead.  I  want  you  to  understand 
that  although  I'm  a  woman  I'm  not  a  prude. 
Oh,  no,  I'm  not  a  prude.  While  I'm  sorry  to  'ear 
what  you've  just  told  me,  I  won't  allow  any  prudery 
to  interfere  with  my  wish  to  'elp  you." 

"  Thank  you,  Landy,"  murmured  poor  Felicia, 
her  tearful  eyelashes  quivering. 

"  As  I  have  said  before,"  she  went  on,  "  I  don't 
believe,  and  never  can  believe  in  those  artful 
schemes  we  read  of  in  the  newspapers.  Girls 
are  fools  when  they  try  'em  on,  unless  they  are 
clever  enough  to  carry  'em  out  without  going  to 
the  courts.  I  'ates  the  courts.  Oh,  'ow  I  'ates'em, 
Miss  'Alstead.  Now,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  don't 
need  'em.  A  breach  of  promise  wouldn't  pay  you 
anything  at  all,  because  Mr.  Rellerick  is  powerful 


The  Horror  of  Success  69 

and  popular,  and  every  jury  likes  a  powerful  and 
popular  man." 

A  flush  of  mortification  reddened  Felicia's  ears 
and  throat,  but  she  was  too  limp  and  lax  to  at- 
tempt argument  or  protestation.  Did  it  matter 
anyway,  what  this  stupid  old  creature  said  ?  Felicia 
sighed  and  listened — because  she  couldn't  help 
hearing. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  plodded  on  the  Landington, 
"  that  if,  as  you  say — and  I've  read  it,  too,  in  the 
papers  to-day,  although  I  didn't  quite  understand 
it  until  you  explained — if,  as  you  say,  you  made 
the  success  last  night,  then,  my  dear,  it's  very  evi- 
dent that  Mr.  Rellerick  is  afraid  of  you.  He  is 
frightened  that  he  is  going  to  lose  his  applause, 
and  that  you'll  get  it.  That  makes  him  quite  will- 
ing to  listen  to  reason." 

Mrs.  Landington  screwed  up  her  eyes  tightly  and 
allowed  her  double  chin  to  rest  negligently  upon 
the  barricade  of  white  ruching  round  her  neck. 
She  looked  like  a  Hecate,  done  up  in  grease  and 
London. 

"  Now,  we  all  know,"  said  she,  "  that,  in  this 
world,  the  saying  is  '  Every  man  for  himself  and 
the  devil  take  the  'indmost.'  And  if  a  man,  why 
not  a  woman  ?  We  all  'as  to  look  after  ourselves, 
my  dear.  Why,  when  my  poor  Thomas  had  his 
butcher's  shop  in  Dalston,  a  canny  young  fellow, 
who  used  to  take  out  the  meat, — he  only  got  ten 
bob  a  week — threatened  one  day  to  leave  and  set 
up  for  'imself  if  my  Thomas  didn't  double  his 
salary.  And  my  Thomas  wouldn't  do  it — not  he. 


70  His  Own  Image 

And  I  being  something  of  a  fool  in  those  days,  ad- 
vised 'im  to  let  the  fellow  go.  The  fellow  went, 
and  in  a  month  we  had  another  butcher's  shop  to 
contend  with.  And  he  knew  all  the  tricks  of 
Thomas'  trade,  my  dear,  also  all  Thomas'  cus- 
tomers. He  dared  to  sell  our  shilling  a  pound 
steaks  at  tenpence  ha'penny,  and  so  I  may  as  well 
say,  we  was  'opelessly  injured." 

Felicia  smiled,  although  as  yet  she  could  detect 
no  logic  in  these  remarks. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Landington  went  on, 
"acting's  like  meat,  I  take  it,  and  business  is 
business.  Mr.  Rellerick  'as  a  fine  trade  in  the 
West  end,  and  no  opposition.  Here  ^you  are, 
however,  in  the  field,  and  the  public  says  as  'ow 
your  steaks  are  quite  as  prime  and  juicy  as  'is. 
That's  so,  isn't  it  ?  He's  been  very  angry  with  you 
to-day — not  because  you  gave  'im  notice,  as  I  at 
first  thought — but  because  you're  coming  into  de- 
mand and  that  he's  a-going  out  of  it.  What  fol- 
lows ?"  (Logically  she  held  up  a  hand  and  checked 
off  a  thumb.)  "  He's  afraid  that  you  intend  to  set 
up  in  business  for  yourself,  and  sell  your  acting  at 
one  corner  of  the  street,  while  he  sells  his  at  the 
other.  He  doesn't  want  you  to  do  this.  He'd 
prevent  it  in  any  way." 

A  gleam  of  interest  illuminated  Felicia's  dejected 
features.  Yet  even  now  she  could  scarcely  see  any 
satisfaction  in  Reginald's  fear. 

"You  tell  me  that  you  love  him,"  said  Landing- 
ton,  "  and  I'm  sure  that  I  'opes  you  do,  under  the 
circumstances.  He's  taken  advantage  of  you,  evi- 


The  Horror  of  Success  71 

dently.  Oh,  'ow  I  'ates  that  kind  of  thing.  You 
want  'im  to  marry  you,  and  as  I  thinks  it  over,  I 
find  that  it  is  the  proper  thing  for  'im  to  do.  He 
was  a  good  employer,  but,  after  all,  my  dear,  a  girl 
'as  to  look  after  'erself,  with  all  the  neighbours 
ready  to  turn  on  her  and  give  'er  the  black  looks. 
There's  only  one  way  for  'im  to  prevent  your  set- 
ting up  in  business  for  yourself,  and  that  way  is 
marriage.  A  man's  not  frightened  of  his  own  wife. 
They  eats  the  same  bread-and-butter.  If  he  pro- 
vides it,  she  eats  it,  and  if  she  provides  it, 
he  eats  it — and  ain't  ashamed  to  do  it,  either. 
Don  't  I  know  that  'my  poor  Thomas  ate  mine, 
when  the  shop  was  sold  up  and  I  forced  to 
take  in  washing.  So,  says  you  to  Mr.  Rellerick, 
*  Reginald,  dear,'  (or  perhaps  you  calls  'im  Reggie, 
for  short)  '  marry  me,  and  I'll  stay  in  your  shop. 
Refuse,  and  I  opens  in  business  for  myself  and 
takes  away  your  customers.'  " 

Poor  Felicia  quailed  beneath  the  quarry-like 
effect  of  this  crushing  logic,  which  came  home  to  her 
overwhelmingly. 

"  I  'ates  scheming,"  insisted  Mrs.  Landington, 
"  because  it  gets  into  the  papers  and  the  courts. 
But  if  a  woman  can  get  the  better  of  a  man  in  a 
thoroughly  ladylike  way,  why,  let  her  do  it.  A 
girl  can  be  quite  the  lady  when  she  says  to  a  man 
who  is  afraid  of  her ,  '  Marry  me,  or  I'll  set  up  in 
opposition.'  There  is  nothing  common  or  unre- 
fined in  that,  my  dear.  Nobody  'ears  of  it.  It's 
between  'im  and  you  and  the  four  walls.  And 
poor  old  Landy  would  never  leave  you,  my  dear." 


72  His  Own  Image 

(Here  she  pressed  a  dry  eye  with  a  finger-tip,  and 
caused  her  pneumatic  bosom  to  lift  itself  in  a  sigh.) 
"  She  may  feel  sorry  to  find  this  peaceful  little 
'ome  in  Netting  '111  all  broken  up,  but  she'll  go  with 
you,  wherever  you  goes.  Even  if  he  starts  a  big 
establishment  in  a  swell  street,  Landy'll  find  no 
fault.  She'll  look  after  you  married,  as  she  has 
looked  after  you  single.  So  cheer  up,  Miss  'Al- 
stead,  all  isn't  lost.  The  prospect  is  encouraging 
— most  encouraging.  Suppose  we  'as  a  glass  of 
fine  old  gin,  and  drinks  to  the  'ealth  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Reginald  Rellerick,  the  famous  actor,  and  the 
more  famous — yes,  my  dear — the  more  famous 
actress.  The  point  lies  in  the  *  more  famous.' 
That's  our  little  game." 

Non-acquiescent  as  she  was  in  the  grimy  details 
of  Mrs.  Landington's  campaign,  a  singular  repose, 
nevertheless,  crept  into  the  young  actress's  mind. 
Perhaps,  as  the  housekeeper  said,  the  situation  was 
amenable  to  reason.  Supposing  that  marriage  was 
the  method  that  suggested  itself  to  Reginald  Rel- 
lerick, as  the  solution  of  this  problem,  would  she 
be  unwilling  to  accept  it  ?  Would  not  his  love  be 
as  grateful  to  her  if  it  came  through  a  menace  as 
through  spontaneous  sources  ?  Poor  hungry  Fe- 
licia was  bound  to  answer  herself  in  the  affirmative. 
Without  marriage  he  was  lost  to  her.  The  loyal 
London  public  would  see  to  it  that  she  was  pin- 
nacled and  worshipped.  Each  new  success  would 
mean  a  step  away  from  Reginald.  As  his  wife 
there  would  be  a  plausible  reason  for  her  retire- 
ment from  the  stage.  As  the  mother  of  his  ehil- 


The  Horror  of  Success  73 

dren,  the  footlights  need  never  claim  her  as  their 
own.  It  would  be  best  for  him,  and  oh,  how  infi- 
nitely best  for  her. 

"If  this  plan  is  such  a  good  one,"  she  murmured 
— and  her  voice  sounded  cavernously  unnatural — 
"  he  will  think  of  it.  If  he  is  afraid  of  me,  he  will 
ask  me  to  marry  him.  That  is  quite  sure.  He  is 
wiser  than  I  am,  Landy,  and  wiser  than  you  are." 

She  did  not  "  recoil "  from  the  idea,  as  a  noble 
girl  in  a  play  or  a  novel  would  have  done.  She 
did  not  cry  "  Never  !  Unless  he  loves  me  for  my- 
self, I  will  not  consent  to  be  his."  Heroines  of 
that  sort  are  always  popular — perhaps  because 
they  rarely  exist  in  real  life,  and  real  life  is  fre- 
quently what  we  struggle  to  get  away  from  in  our 
books  and  our  plays.  Felicia  was  hopelessly  and 
irretrievably  addicted  to  Reginald  Rellerick,  and 
as  his  wife  she  saw  the  only  happiness  that  life 
held  in  store  for  her.  Willingly  would  she  have 
continued  as  his  unmarried  slave  for  the  rest  of  her 
days — colourless,  effaced,  obliterated.  But  the 
demon  of  publicity  was  after  her.  A  horror  of 
success  had  been  forced  upon  her  without  a  con- 
test— a  success  that  was  his  god  and  her  bugbear. 
Nothing  succeeds  like  success — the  French  pro- 
verb says — but  Felicia  felt  that  failure  would  have 
given  her  keener  happiness.  It  would  not  have 
stepped  in  the  way  of  the  absorbing  femininity  of 
her  nature. 

Mrs.  Landington  had  poured  out  'two  glasses  of 
rare  old  gin,  the  odour  of  which  caused  her  vivid, 
lower-class  nostrils  to  dilate  in  ecstasy.  Gin  is  the 


74  His  Own  Image 

champagne  of  the  London  mob,  and  Felicia's  house- 
keeper was  an  arch  believer  in  its  merits.  She 
handed  a  glass  to  Miss  Halstead,  and  holding  the 
other  to  her  lips,  she  drained  it  to  the  dregs,  crying 
"  'Ere's  long  life  and  prosperity  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Rellerick.  May  they  live  long  and  be  'appy." 

This  toast  had  such  a  benevolent  effect  upon 
Mrs.  Landington  as  she  smacked  her  lips  until  the 
stiff  ruching  around  her  neck  cracked,  that  she 
looked  thirstily  around  for  more.  Seeing  Felicia's 
untouched  glass,  and  noting  the  fact  that  Miss  Hal- 
stead  had  no  intention  of  using  it,  she  drained  that 
as  well,  repeating  the  toast  in  hilarious  tones. 

Felicia  was  too  confused  to  give  her  troubles  any 
further  consideration.  The  housekeeper,  moreover, 
started  ginwards,  was  ogling  the  fat  bottle  very 
insinuatingly.  The  young  actress  moved  slowly 
away,  slightly  comforted,  but  sufficiently  despon- 
dent to  have  satisfied  the  most  rigid  stickler  for  the 
theory  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward — and  vice- 
versa. 


Chapter  V 

CRAMPTON  ADVISES 

REGINALD  RELLERICK  did  not  leave  London. 
He  remained  in  the  metropolis,  to  stew  in  his  sen- 
sations. He  made  no  excuses  for  this  change  of 
programme,  and  took  no  pains  to  invent  a  plausi- 
ble lie  for  the  benefit  of  the  public.  A  fig  for  the 
public,  that  had  shown  every  disposition  to  oust  him 
from  his  unique  empire  !  Purling  brooks  and  gur- 
gling streams  could  be  endured  when  the  mind  was 
at  rest  and  the  outlook  attractive.  Just  at  present, 
however,  Mr.  Rellerick  felt  that  his  presence  was 
needed  in  London.  There  wereMiabolical  schemes 
to  thwart,  diplomatic  measures  to  pursue,  a  Mac- 
chiavellian  policy  to  carry  out  to  the  bitter  end. 
So  Reginald  remained  in  London,  and  tossed  about 
on  his  big  blue  bed  in  all  the  agonies  of  insomnia. 
In  the  meantime,  he  carefully  "  sounded  "  the  situ- 
ation. It  was  even  worse  than  he  had  at  first 
thought.  Miss  Halstead's  success  was  sung 
throughout  London  in  paeans  of  praise.  They 
are  always  waiting  for  something,  in  London.  The 
feverish  population  hangs  upon  the  expectation  of 
novelty.  Miss  Halstead  had  furnished  it.  Her 
name  was  served  up  hot,  with  afternoon  tea,  May- 
fair  dinner,  and  the  unsanctioned  supper.  She  had 

L75] 


76  His  Own  Image 

taken  the  town  by  storm  at  the  very  time  when  Mr. 
Rellerick  was  firing  upon  it  from  another  direction. 
The  fact  that  she  was  a  woman  was  a  damning  fact 
for  him.  The  actor,  pitted  against  the  actress,  gen- 
erally gets  the  worst  of  it — for  the  stage  is  con- 
structed to  please  men,  and  woman  is  its  primest 
object.  It  is  by  means  of  an  Ellen  Terry  that  a 
wily  Irving  prolongs  his  reign.  It  is  with  her  name 
that  he  fills  his  hypnotic  speeches.  It  is  a  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  who  wins  by  sensational  means  what  a 
Mounet-Sully  loses  by  too  much  art.  The  names 
of  Kendal  and  Bancroft,  in  the  sugar  of  petticoats, 
have  been  enabled  to  make  history.  The  stage  is 
the  platform  for  women,  and  the  great  actors  fight 
their  way  against  terrific  odds. 

Offers  poured  in  to  Felicia  Halstead,  and  the 
great  actor  knew  it.  Theatrical  "  speculators " 
appeared,  and  begged  her  to  suggest  her  own 
terms.  They  wou!4  "  star  "  her.  She  should  have 
a  theatre  "  in  the  West  End."  There  should  be 
unlimited  money  in  the  arrangement  of  her  career. 
It  should  be  built  upon  the  rocks  of  pecuniary  re- 
sponsibility. A  triumphant  tour  of  America  was 
mooted — cruellest  blow  of  all  to  fall  upon  the  great 
actor.  He  had  been  contemplating  this  tour  for 
some  time  and  the  indefatigable  Crampton  had 
written  innumerable  "anecdotes  "  of  Rellerick  for 
the  American  papers.  The  New  York  journals  had 
teemed  with  stories  of  the  big  blue  bed,  of  the 
famous  man's  eccentricity,  charity,  temperament, 
resources,  past,  present  and  future. 

Success  rushed  upon  Felicia  like  an  avalanche. 


Crampton  Advises  77 

If  she  had  wanted  to  enjoy  it  it  would  have  been 
impossible.  It  came  so  quickly  that  she  was  un- 
able to  savour  its  ineffable  delicacy.  .  The  London 
"  weeklies  "  devoted  columns  to  the  young  ac- 
tress. Unable  to  "  interview  "  her — for  nothing 
would  induce  her  to  consent  to  the  ignominy  of  her 
own  laudation — they  dressed  up  the  "  remin- 
iscences "  of  associate  actresses  and  actors  Miss 
Snooks,  the  ingenue  of  the  Rellerick  company,  was 
induced  to  bear  testimony  to  Felicia's  sweetness 
and  to  the  purity  of  her  home  life.  Mr.  Kafips, 
the  leading  juvenile,  contributed  some  delightful 
notes  upon  Felicia's  amiability  to  inferiors.  And 
so  it  went — in  the  regular  cut-and-dried  grooves  of 
stage  fame — grooves  in  which  there  is  never  a  sus- 
picion of  originality.  Fame  is  measured  out  in 
carefully  tested  scales,  and  each  lion  gets  a  stereo- 
typed share.  There  is  nothing  more  banal  than 
success — the  success  awarded  by  the  mob. 

It  was  all  intolerable  to  Reginald  Rellerick.  He 
had  digested  just  that  sort  of  applause  for  so  long, 
that  his  physical  and  mental  apparatus  could 
assimilate  nothing  else.  He  could  not  bear  that 
this  printed  adulation  should  be  thrust  upon  another 
— especially  when  that  other  was  his  own  little 
mechanical  toy — his  doll  that  said  "  Mamma  "  and 
"  Papa  " — his  untinted  and  anaemic  Felicia  Hal- 
stead.  His  ego-mania,  thwarted,  grew  inward, 
until  his  entire  brain  was  filled  with  diseased 
pictures  of  his  own  martyrdom,  and  odious  "  group- 
ings "  of  persecutors,  ready  to  knife  him  at  every 
step.  A  sane  man  would  have  made  the  best  of 


78  His  Own  Image 

such  conditions  and  would  have  bowed  to  the 
inevitable  as  gracefully  as  possible.  Moreover,  in 
the  sane  man's  mind,  there  would  have  been  an 
inclination  to  side  with  the  mob  and  to  realize  that, 
for  once,  his  efforts  had  been  surpassed.  But  the 
ego-maniac  is  not  a  sane  man.  For  him  there  is 
nothing  but  an  "  I  "  in  the  world,  and  when  that 
"  I  "  is  under  a  cloud,  the  world  grows  suddenly 
dark,  and  its  progress  is  stayed. 

After  a  night  of  aggressive  sleeplessness — after 
one  of  those  vibrant  self-agonies  that  are  the  un- 
erring symptoms  of  the  diseased  ego — the  great 
actor  sat  up  in  his  big  blue  bed,  with  his  plans 
matured.  There  was  a  look  of  defiance  in  his  face, 
and  the  calmness  of  the  diplomatic  criminal  in  his 
eye.  He  had  determined  to  end  all  this  in  the  eas- 
iest and  most  plausible  manner.  As  he  dressed 
himself  slowly,  he  gloated  over  his  own  mental  deft- 
ness. There  was  a  way  out  of  it  all.  It  was  a 
heavy,  and  eternal  way,  but  it  must  be  followed, 
and  it  would  bring  the  slipping  land  once  more 
beneath  his  persistent  feet. 

As  he  entered  his  study  where  his  own  personal- 
ity seemed  to  greet  him  from  the  four  walls,  his 
faithful  Crampton  met  him  with  the  usual  immov- 
able features.  The  secretary,  during  the  past  few 
days,  had  been  obliged  to  conceal  his  knowledge  of 
Mr.  Rellerick's  misfortune.  He  had  behaved  as 
though  nothing  whatsoever  had  happened,  and  had 
not  dared  to  vouchsafe  a  sympathy  which — even  if 
he  had  felt  it — would  have  enlisted  him  in  the 
ranks  of  Reginald's  persecutors. 


Crampton  Advises  79 

The  great  actor  deliberately  extended  himself 
over  a  long  chair,  arranged  his  classic  face  in  the 
lines  of  that  marble  perfection  which  it  was  his  aim 
to  copy,  and  motioned  Crampton  to  a  seat.  Then 
he  began. 

"  Crampton,"  he  said,  in  his  slowest  and  most 
archly  affected  tones,  "  You  have  wondered  why  I 
remained  in  town  after  the  close  of  my  season  " 
(Crampton  hadn't),  "  when  my  public  expects  me 
to  be  climbing  blue  mountains  and  gazing  into 
green  streams — to  say  nothing  of  studying  red  sun- 
sets and  other  pretty  freaks  of  nature.  I  will  tell 
you.  Crampton,  I  find  that  this  life  of  solitude 
and  celibacy  palls  upon  me.  I  intend  to  get  mar- 
ried." 

The  mouldy  secretary,  impermeable  to  ordinary 
sensations,  drilled  in  all  the  arts  of  self-effacement, 
was  unable  to  master  himself  as  the  actor's  words 
reached  his  ear.  Into  his  tawny,  parchment  skin 
crept  the  red  flush  of  shock ;  while  the  film  that 
seemed  to  cover  his  eyes  was  dissipated,  as  they 
burned  in  a  light  that  was  turned  nervously  upon 
Mr.  Rellerick. 

"  Don't  show  your  surprise  in  such  an  ill-bred 
way,  Crampton,"  remarked  the  inimitable  Reginald, 
lackadaisically.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  marry  ?  I  am 
not  too  young,  and  most  assuredly,  I  am  not  too 
old.  It  is  an  eminently  respectable  proceeding, 
Crampton.  My  only  fear  is  that  it  is  too  respecta- 
ble. What  say  you  ?" 

Crampton  moistened  his  dry  lips,  upon  which  the 
skin  stood  out  in  crisp  and  ugly  edges.  He  mur- 


80  His  Own  Image 

mured  something  unintelligible,  in  which  the  words 
"  proper  "  and  "  precedent  "  seemed  to  have  a  place. 
Reginald  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  murmur. 
He  was  not  particularly  anxious  to  hear  another 
speak.  Crampton's  gurgle  indicated,  at  any  rate, 
that  he  was  listening  ;  also  that  he  heard. 

"  I  have  thought  of  it  for  some  time,"  said  the 
great  man,  the  blithe  lie  rising  to  his  lips  almost  po- 
etically. "  You  may  have  noticed  my  affection  for 
little  Miss  Felicia  Halstead,  Crampton.  Ah !  a 
man  cannot  conceal  his  sentiments  for  a  woman, 
even  though  he  be  an  actor,  and  accustomed  to  dis- 
semble for  a  living.  The  little  girl  is  young,  bright, 
pretty,  and,  I  am  inclined  to  think — clever.  She 
is  fond  of  me,  Crampton,  very  fond  of  me — un- 
worthy and  repellent  though  I  undoubtedly  am  ; 
and  just  now  it  seems  to  me  that  she  needs  a  pro- 
tector. They  tell  me,  Crampton,  that  she  has  been 
pestered  by  managers  and  actors  who  are  trying  to 
turn  the  poor  little  thing's  head.  That  is  true,  is  it 
not,  Crampton  ?" 

Poor  mouldy  secretary  !  He  bowed  in  acqui- 
escence. Not  a  word  could  he  find  to  utter.  Some- 
thing rumbled  inside  him.  It  was  probably  a  re- 
mark that  he  intended  to  voice.  But  the  rumbling 
died  away  and  he  was  silent. 

"  It  is  my  duty  to  protect  Felicia,"  Mr.  Rellerick 
asserted,  averting  his  profile  so  that  his  clear-cut 
nose  lay,  whitely  triangular,  upon  the  crimson  cush- 
ions of  the  chair,  "  So  far,  her  career  has  been  in 
my  charge.  What  she  is  to-day  I  have  made  her." 
(This,  with  a  tinge  of  irrepressible  asperity.)  "  And 


Crampton  Advises  81 

now  they  are  trying  to  take  her  from  me — to  launch 
her  upon  a  sea  of  trouble,  the  waves  of  which  she 
is  not  strong  enough  to  buffet  with.  I  have  de- 
cided to  marry  her,  Crampton.  Then  she  can  swim 
with  me — sail  along  placidly  by  my  side,  share  my 
popularity  and  be  irrevocably  a  part  of  it." 

Well  schooled  as  he  was,  Reginald  Rellerick 
could  not  subdue  the  sensation  of  nauseating  ha- 
tred that  came  suddenly  over  him.  It  altered  the 
expression  of  his  face  and  imparted  a  harshness  to 
his  final  words.  The  mouldy  secretary,  who  had 
never  moved  his  eyes  from  his  master's  face,  saw  it. 
It  was  not  totally  unexpected.  Crampton  was  too 
well  accustomed  to  the  lights  and  shades  of  Rel- 
lerick's  nature  to  be  deceived  by  mere  words. 

"If  she  be  really  so  great,  Crampton,"  Reginald 
laughed  easily,  and  the  world  would  have  said  that 
it  was  an  amiable  laugh  without  a  tinge  of  irony  in 
its  texture,  "  why  should  I  not  avail  myself  of  her 
genius  ?  Why  should  I  not  undertake  to  place  it 
before  the  world  ?  And  how  can  I  do  this  better 
than  by  marrying  her,  when  I  know  that  she  loves 
me,  and  have  long  been  aware  that  I  love  her  ?" 

Then  the  mouldy  secretary  recovered  his  speech. 
It  came  with  an  outburst — a  singularly  energetic 
outburst  for  one  so  repressed  and  careful.  Still,  in 
spite  of  all,  Crampton's  words  were  deferential — 
almost  obsequious. 

"You  will  make  a  mistake,  Mr.  Rellerick,"  said 
he.  "  You  are  not  destined  for  domesticity.  Your 
hold  upon  the  public  has  been  due  to  some  extent 
to  your  quite  unfathomed  life.  The  world  has  said 


82  His  Own  Image 

that  you  are  so  devoted  to  art  that  you  need  no 
other  mistress ;  that  your  success  has  been  due  to 
a  life  led  alone,  without  domestic  influences.  The 
ordinary  actor  marries  and  has  children,  and  the 
world  says  that  he  acts  for  bread-and-butter.  They 
have  never  said  that  of  you.  They  have  wondered 
at  you,  admired  you,  regarded  you  as  an  enigma. 
You  want  to  change  that  by  marrying — and  by 
marrying  a  mere  chit  of  an  actress  "  (Mr.  Crampton 
hesitated  a  moment  before  uttering  the  words  "  chit 
of  an  actress  "  and  jumped  them  out  as  though  they 
would  not  bear  considering)  "  who  is  scarcely  fitted 
to  you.  Pardon  me  if  I  say  this,  Mr.  Rellerick.  I 
do  so  in  all  humility.  How  will  it  seem  to  you  to 
find  your  name  invariably  associated  with  that  of  a 
wife — '  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rellerick  '  instead  of  '  Regi- 
nald Rellerick,  the  great  actor?'  The  world  will 
talk  of  the  '  Rellericks '  and  you  will  be  obliged  to 
entertain,  to  parade  your  domesticity  before  the 
world.  You  will  have  children,  and  they  will  con- 
flict with  your  life  labours.  Why  marry — and  why 
marry  an  actress  ?" 

Crampton  paused.  It  had  been  years  since  he 
had  spoken  so  much — years  since  in  his  voice  there 
had  been  the  ring  of  a  sincerity  that  had  sounded 
there  in  the  old  Oxford  days. 

Reginald  Rellerick  winced.  Every  reason  set 
forth  by  Crampton  was  a  reason  the  truth  of  which 
stung  him.  Marriage !  It  had  always  been  his 
idea  of  cheap  and  tinsel  uselessness.  How  he 
loathed  the  idea  of  it !  How  dismal  to  think  of  that 
perpetual  tie,  of  that  extravagantly  foolish  solit2tde 


Crampton  Advises  83 

£  deux  f  Ah,  he  knew  that  every  word  his  secre- 
tary had  uttered  was  too  feeble  to  convey  the  full 
discomfort  of  what  wedded  life  would  mean  to  him. 
Suddenly  he  drove  the  vexation  from  his  face.  He 
must  act.  Crampton  was  not  aware  that  he  was 
acting.  How  could  Crampton  know  it?  The 
secretary  was  merely  giving  him  advice,  which  un- 
der normal  conditions  would  be  wise  advice.  This 
marriage  was  not  to  be  lightly  undertaken  for  hap- 
piness ;  it  was  a  marriage  of  diplomacy.  It  was  a 
marriage  destined  to  avert  ruin.  Still  it  was  very 
annoying  to  listen  to  Crampton,  who  was  telling  him 
what  he  knew  so  well  and  had  known  all  his  life. 

"  Actors  have  married  without  losing  their  prestige, 
my  good  man,"  he  said  in  his  usual  bland  voice. 
"  It  is  a  noble  institution  and  the  world  respects  , 
it.  All  that  you  say  is  selfish  and  cruel.  Why 
should  the  happiness  of  two  human  beings  be  sacri- 
ficed for  such  unworthy  reasons  as  you  suggest  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am  wrong,"  declared  the  secretary 
still  vehement,  "  but  if  you  marry  why  not  choose 
a  woman  who  could  help  you — a  woman  with  a 
position  in  the  world,  a  woman  with  money  ? 
You,  Mr.  Rellerick,  could  select  your  own  wife. 
Only  last  year,"  how  quickly  the  slow  and  mouldy 
secretary  made  his  points — "  it  was  rumoured  that 
the  Countess  of  Dwight  was  hopelessly  in  love 
with  you  and  would  be  your  wife  for  the  asking. 
That  lady  has  a  million  at  her  command.  You 
knew  this,  and  laughed  at  the  idea — and  now — and 
now — you  talk  of  marrying  that  poor  little  girl, 
that  penniless  child." 


84  His  Own  Image 

The  great  actor  cast  a  suspicious  glance — one 
that  asked  some  peculiar  question — at  his  secretary. 
There  seemed  to  a  sympathetic  quality  to  his  re- 
marks that  was  not  keeping  with  their  tenor. 
"  That  poor  little  girl,  that  penniless  child."  What 
did  Crampton  mean  by  that  ?  Reginald  swallowed 
a  lump  that  arose  in  his  throat  at  the  mere  idea  of 
the  secretary's  perspicacity.  But  Crampton  had 
fired  his  parting  shot  and  his  face  had  returned  to 
its  everyday  apathy.  The  cheeks  were  sunken  and 
yellow,  the  eyes  filmed,  and  the  mouth  as  inexpres- 
sive as  it  was  its  duty  to  be.  And  again  a  biting 
vexation  took  possession  of  Mr.  Rellerick.  Cramp- 
ton  spoke  like  an  oracle.  Marriage  was  bad 
enough,  but  it  was  worse  when  it  fed  upon  such 
non-nourishing  material  as  Felicia  Halstead.  Yes, 
he  remembered  the  case  of  the  silly  Countess  of 
Dwight,  with  her  well-filled  pockets.  How  he  had 
laughed  at  it,  and  enjoyed  the  newspaper  stories  it 
had  called  forth !  How  he  had  revelled  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  foolish  creature's  discomfiture, 
and  used  it  as  an  additional  means  to  add  to  his 
own  fame  !  How  the  clubs  had  chattered  and  the 
weeklies  held  forth  !  He  had  refused  a  countess, 
and  now  he  was  going  to  wed  "  a  chit  of  an  actress," 
with  a  dependent  family  in  Lancashire.  Bah  !  Then 
once  more  he  recalled  his  reasons.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  choice.  It  was  a  matter  of  grim  neces- 
sity. He  could  not  tread  upon  Felicia  and  stamp 
her  out  of  his  path.  But  he  could  marry  her,  and 
— boiled  mutton  would  do  the  rest. 

So  he  said  simply,  laughing  inwardly  at  his  own 


Crampton  Advises  85 

canny  plan  :  "  Crampton,  you  are  worldly.  I  did 
not  love  the  Countess  of  Dwight.  I  could  have 
married  her  and  have  built  theatres  with  her  mil- 
lions. But  you  don't  know  me,  my  good  fellow. 
I  am  not  quite  mercenary.  I  have  a  few  human 
sentiments,  thank  goodness.  In  marrying  Felicia 
Halstead — the  '  chit  of  an  actress  '  as  you  call  her, 
and  I  hope,  Crampton,  that  you  will  not  think  of  my 
future  wife  in  such  terms — I  am  responding  to  the 
dictates  of  my  nature — ahem  !  I  am  very  fond  of 
her,  and  I  have  no  doubt  but  that  we  shall  be  very 
happy." 

"  She  will  give  up  her  success  for  such  happi- 
ness," chanted  the  secretary.  It  might  have  been 
an  ecclesiastical  utterance  that  came  sing-ily  from 
his  lips. 

"  Of  course." 

And  then  the  certain  Rellerick,  unable  to  weed 
from  anybody's  nature  the  ego-idea  that  dominated 
his  own,  was  suddenly  confronted  with  the  thought 
that  this  Felicia — this  girl  of  whom  he  was  so  sure 
— might  choose  the  spectacular  career  that  had 
been  offered  her.  He  had  not  seen  her  since  the 
morning  when  she  had  come  to  him  in  all  her 
girlish  enthusiasm,  and  he  had  insulted  her  and 
turned  from  her.  What  might  not  have  happened 
since  then  ?  What  woman  could  resist  the  tempta- 
tions that  had  been  hers  ?  The  idea  was  horrible, 
He  intended  to  marry  Felicia  Halstead,  but  was  it 
so  positive  that  she  would  still  be  willing  ?  This 
revolutionary  notion  filled  him  with  fear.  He  had 
no  more  confidence  in  Felicia  than  he  had  in  him- 


86  His  Own  Image 

self.  The  ego-maniac  judges  everybody  by  his 
own  standard. 

Unable  to  endure  the  possibility  that  had  just 
wedged  itself  into  his  consciousness,  he  sat  upright 
in  his  chair  and  with  eyes  full  of  dread,  said  to  his 
secretary,  "  Crampton,  this  woman  may  refuse  me. 
There  is  a  career  for  her,  in  which  I  have  nothing 
to  do.  What  do  you  think  she  will  say  ?  What 
do  you  think  she  will  say  ?" 

And  Crampton,  who  was  not  an  ego-maniac,  but 
who  was  able  to  judge  poor  Felicia  Halstead,  or 
any  other  woman,  by  the  light  of  his  own  honest 
human  understanding,  shuffled  uneasily  with  his 
awkward  feet. 

"She  will  say  yes,"  he  said  in  a  voice  so  low 
that  it  was  almost  inaudible.  "  Of  course  she  will 
say  yes.  Women  are  fools.  I  mean  that  a  woman 
in  love  will  sacrifice  anything  for  it." 

A  new  train  of  thought,  however,  had  been  started 
in  Reginald's  mind.  The  possibility  of  Felicia's 
refusal  to  link  her  budding  name  with  his  mori- 
bund faculties,  occurred  to  him  with  renewed  force. 
This  marriage  was  now  the  one  redeeming  hope  in 
his  life.  It  must  take  place,  and  it  must  take  place 
as  soon  as  possible.  Even  while  he  had  been  lux- 
uriously talking  to  Crampton,  and  cosily  surveying 
the  situation  as  though  it  were  something  estab- 
lished and  certain,  he  should  have  been  with  Fe- 
licia, pleading  his  cause  with  the  fresher  and  bit- 
terer insults  of  professed  love. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  though  the  crisis  were 
bound  to  work  itself  out,  with  or  without  his  inter- 


Crampton  Advises  87 

vention,  a  telegram  was  brought  to  Mr.  Rellerick, 
by  a  salaaming  lackey  in  uniform.  The  great 
actor's  usual  method  was  to  leave  all  correspond- 
ence to  be  opened  and  attended  to  by  his  Cramp- 
ton.  On  this  occasion  he  broke  the  seal  of  the 
telegram  himself  and»read  as  follows  :  c 

"  Am  leaving  for  Liverpool  five  o'clock  to-night. 
Shall  stay  with  my  sisters.  Return  in  three  weeks. 

FELICIA." 

Leaving  London  and  to  be  away  for  three 
weeks !  Evidently  Felicia  had  made  her  plans 
and — according  to  the  methods  of  the  conventional 
actress — was  going  home  with  a  contract  in  her 
pocket.  He  must  know  all.  He  must  see  her,  talk 
with  her,  and  convince  her.  Mr.  Rellerick  made  up 
his  mind  to  an  undignified  interview  with  the  "chit 
of  an  actress  "  at  Euston.  He  would  sink  his  pride, 
forget  his  "  position,"  and  hurry  matters  to  the 
ending  he  had  mapped  out,  even  if  by  so  doing  he 
were  forced  to  make  a  fool  of  himself  in  a  railway 
station. 


Chapter  VI 
i 

"MARRY  ME,  FELICIA" 

"THE  fix'd  events  of  Fate's  remote  decree" 
took  Reginald  Rellerick  to  Euston  Station — a  re- 
sort that  has  vivacity,  but  no  very  conspicuous 
romance.  The  great  actor  told  himself  that  this 
little  trip  was  the  result  of  the  diplomatic  deter- 
mination set  forth  in  the  preceding  chapter.  Reg- 
inald, however — like  the  rest  of  us — was  merely 
Fate's  little  mechanical  toy,  the  string  of  which 
was  being  pulled  in  order  that  the  doll  might 
work. 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  Mr.  Rellerick,  and 
he  spared  himself  none  of  its  flavour.  He  walked 
along  the  dishevelled  Euston  Road  as  though  it 
were  a  new  and  undesirable  hemisphere  into  which 
he  had  been  suddenly  plunged.  It  was  all  so  very 
odd,  and  so  exceedingly  revolutionary,  that  he 
could  scarcely  enjoy  it.  Still,  as  a  new  epoch  in 
his  life  was  undoubtedly  about  to  begin,  and  the 
whirligig  of  time  evidently  contemplated  ousting 
him  from  his  groove,  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well 
that  he  should  accustom  himself  to  novelty. 

It  was  very  disgusting  to  the  great  actor — was 
this  Euston  Road,  so  far  removed  from  his  own 
walk  in  life.  Nobody  knew  him ;  nobody  paid  any 
[88] 


"  Marry  Me,  Felicia  "  89 

attention  to  him  !  It  was  almost  as  bad  as  a  holi- 
day among  the  purling  brooks  and  rippling  streams. 
The  ego-maniac  saw  the  vulgarity  of  the  thorough- 
fare flaunted  in  his  very  eyes.  It  affected  him  un- 
pleasantly— as  an  evil  odour  would  have  done. 
His  features  were  puckered  up  into  the  expression 
worn  by  a  person  who  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
finds  a  ripe  Camembert  cheese  beneath  his  nose. 
You  know  the  expression.  It  is  unique.  It  should 
find  a  place  in  the  category  of  expressions.  I 
have  not  coined  it  for  this  occasion.  The  Camem- 
bert cheese  expression  is  one  that  has  lived,  and 
will  live,  in  the  annals  of  facial  history. 

The  ego-maniac  found  himself  confronted  by 
cheap  and  ignominious  hotels  in  which  a  temporary 
matrimony  is  tolerated  for  ready  money  ;  by  frugal 
and  non-luxurious  Turkish  Bath  establishments  in 
which  each  Euston-roader  can  stew  for  a  shilling 
apiece  ;  by  colossal,  gaudy  houses  in  which  "ac- 
cordeon-pleating  "  is  done  for  the  high-life  of  the 
West  end,  and  by  "  homes "  that  laugh  at  the 
word.  The  noisy  "  busses  "  rushed  past ;  the  pov- 
erty-thin sidewalk  artists  sketched  impossible  pic- 
tures in  chalk  on  the  sidewalks  ;  grimy  children 
played  at  dreary  games,  sorrowfully  parodying 
"  childhood's  happy  hour,"  and  carriages  heavily 
laden  with  luggage  passed  on  their  way  to  the  sta- 
tion. All  these  things  were  foisted  upon  Reginald 
Rellerick's  attention.  He  was  not  interested  in 
them.  He  would  have  played  a  part  on  the  stage 
with  these  sights  as  "  properties,"  but  in  real  life 
they  were  devoid  of  all  significance  to  him.  A 


9o  His  Own  Image 

scene  in  a  melodrama  setting  forth  all  these  facts 
to  beguile  an  audience's  attention  before  he  made 
his  supreme  and  engrossing  entrance,  might  have 
captured  his  approval.  How  could  this  ego-maniac 
feel  a  spark  of  curiosity  in  the  real  thing,  when  it 
went  on  undisturbed,  uninterrupted,  even  while  he 
passed  through  its  midst  ?  The  great  Rellerick 
made  no  impression  whatsoever  upon  the  Euston 
Road.  The  people  did  not  flock  to  the  sides  of 
the  thoroughfare  and  form  a  lane  through  which 
he  might  pass.  The  sidewalk  artists  did  not  cease 
to  labour ;  the  children  made  no  pretence  of  stop- 
ping their  games,  and  the  men  in  the  hotels  never 
noticed  his  presence.  This  galled  the  ego-maniac, 
and  the  Camembert  cheese  contempt  puckered  up 
his  features  more  hideously  than  ever. 

Into  Euston  Station  he  turned  rather  wearily.  It 
was  a  very  rude  place — all  shrieks,  and  noise,  and 
smoke,  and  endurance.  He  had  been  there  before, 
en  route  for  the  provinces — for  feted  weeks,  in 
Birmingham  and  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  Then 
there  had  been  groups  of  sycophants  to  wish  him 
Godspeed  ;  now,  there  was  nothing.  He  was  there 
to  intercept  a  woman  whom  his  soul  hated  ;  to  ask 
her  to  allow  the  law  to  sanction  his  hatred  for  ever- 
more; to  beg  her  to  wear  his  name,  and  to  cling  to 
him  as  he  knew  that  she  would  be  only  too  willing 
to  cling. 

"  Out  of  the  way,"  cried  an  odious  person  in 
green  corduroys,  as  the  great  actor  almost  fell  over 
a  wheelbarrow  of  luggage.  And  Mr.  Rellerick 
obeyed  the  crude  command  in  disgust.  The  odious 


"  Marry  Me,  Felicia  "  91 

person  had  no  regard  for  him  at  all,  but  went  on 
his  way  with  the  wheelbarrow  freight,  whistling  and 
unconcerned. 

He  inquired  the  number  of  the  platform  from 
which  the  Liverpool  train  started,  and  was  treated 
with  ill-disguised  contempt.  With  these  menials  it 
was  a  crime  not  to  know  every  detail  of  this  Eus- 
ton  Station's  business.  He  should  have  been  able 
to  check  off  every  train  on  his  fingers,  and  state  at 
a  moment's  notice  the  exact  minute  of  departure 
and  arrival.  The  actor  felt  that  this  world  of  the 
non-footlights  was  a  cold  and  a  cheerless  affair. 

He  reached  the  Liverpool  platform  through  a 
labyrinth  of  clanking  pavements.  The  train  was 
there,  snorting  and  impatient.  He  had  fifteen  min- 
utes in  which  to  mould  his  refractory  career.  Twenty 
minutes  from  now,  Felicia  Halstead  would  be  on' 
her  way  to  Liverpool,  his  affianced  wife,  and  he 
would  be  free  to  mature  his  subsequent  plans. 
She  was  not  yet  here.  The  platform  was  filled  with 
the  usual  crowd  of  London-leavers, — juvenile  busi- 
ness men  with  satchels  and  travelling  caps,  casting 
their  bundles  into  the  least  uncomfortable  corners 
of  the  least  uncomfortable  carriages  ;  old  men 
leaving  the  metropolis,  with  families  and  homes  in 
the  provinces;  matrons  all  perturbed  and  anxious; 
maidens  all  giggle  and  illustrated  papers  and  sand- 
wiches. 

Mr.  Rellerick  went  to  the  book-stall  and  tried  to 
read  the  titles  of  the  books.  He  saw  one  illustrated 
weekly,  from  the  front  page  of  which  the  picture 
of  Felicia  Halstead  stared  him  in  the  face.  Quickly 


92  His  Own  Image 

he  turned  away  his  head.  Those  large,  wide  eyes 
and  that  soft-lipped  mouth  caused  him  a  pang  of 
distress,  and  after  a  moment  he  left  the  book-stall 
hurriedly.  He  was  just  in  time.  A  hansom  drove 
up  quickly ;  a  porter  rushed  forward  obsequi- 
ously ;  a  portmanteau  was  flung  to  the  ground  reck- 
lessly, and  an  instant  later  Felicia  Halstead,  ac- 
companied by  Mrs.  Landington,  was  in  the  station. 
The  housekeeper  went  to  buy  the  ticket  and  attend 
to  other  details,  leaving  the  young  actress  standing 
alone  on  the  platform.  His  opportunity  had  come 
at  last. 

Felicia  looked  pale  and  ill.  Never  had  he  seen 
her  so  carelessly  prepared  for  public  gaze.  She 
wore  an  old  travelling  ulster  that  was  slightly 
frayed  at  the  edges,  and  a  hat  that  contained 
straight  and  dejected  feathers,  gone  astray.  He 
could  even  notice  that  her  gilded  hair  began  to 
look  less  gold  at  the  roots.  It  was  carelessly 
twisted  into  an  inartistic  knot  at  the  back  of  the 
head.  Yet  Miss  Halstead,  in  her  unconsidered  at- 
tire, was  delightful  to  look  upon,  and  the  people  in 
the  station  looked  upon  her.  He  could  even  hear 
the  boy  behind  the  book-stall  say  to  a  custo- 
mer, "  That's  Miss  Halstead,  the  actress,  whose 
picture  you  see  in  this  paper."  The  remark  was 
bitterest  wormwood  to  him.  She  was  recognized 
— she,  the  novice  and  the  upstart  ;  while  he,  Lon- 
don's favourite,  had  escaped  attention  of  any  kind. 

Mr.  Rellerick  rushed  instantly  to  his  plans.  He 
had  twelve  minutes.  Felicia  was  there  alone,  pen- 
sive, thinking  perhaps — of  him.  The  sun  was  not 


Marry  Me,  Felicia" 


93 


shining,  but  the  sort  of  hay  he  intended  to  make 
could  be  bleached  in  any  weather.  He  approached 
her  slowly,  drilling  from  his  features  the  detesta- 
tion that  he  felt  for  her,  disciplining  himself  into 
the  effort  to  act.  Never  had  acting  been  more 
necessary.  It  was  before  an  audience  of  one — but 
upon  that  one  depended  the  applause  of  audiences 
of  thousands. 

She  looked  up,  just  before  he  reached  her,  at- 
tracted by  the  subtle  magnetism  that  exudes  from 
the  person  in  one's  thoughts.  As  she  saw  him  she 
started,  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face,  her  lips 
trembled,  and  she  sat  helplessly  upon  a  wooden 
bench  near  her.  The  great  actor  advanced  with  an 
admirable  expression  of  remorse  upon  his  face,  then 
quickened  his  steps  as  though  suddenly  impelled 
by  sheer  gladness. 

"  Felicia  !"  he  said,  and  was  silent.  He  thought 
that  her  name,  with  an  exclamation  mark,  sounded 
very  well.  The  utterance  was  distinctly  non-com- 
mittal, but  it  could  be  construed — and  he  meant 
that  it  should — into  meaning  a  great  deal. 

She  tried  to  speak,  all  the  sincerity  of  her  nature 
in  the  attempt.  Her  lips  moved  helplessly.  She 
could  only  look  at  him — and  wait. 

"  You  were  running  away  from  me,  Felicia,"  he 
said,  mournfully.  "  You  were  going  to  Lancashire 
without  a  single  word  of  farewell.  You  were  treasur- 
ing up  against  me  those  foolish  words  I  spoke  some 
time  ago.  Ah,  Felicia,  I  never  thought  that  you 
were  so  unforgiving,  so  vindictive,  so  ready  to  for- 
get your — your — old  friend  J" 


His  Own  Image 


He  stood  there,  convincing  enough  to  have  satis- 
fied any  audience.  Into  his  voice  furtive  tears 
had  seemed  to  drip.  His  tones  were  low  and 
admirably  dismal.  He  appeared  to  be  uncertain  of 
himself  and  of  her.  The  lines  of  his  attitude  sug- 
gested utter  depression  and  melancholy.  Not  a 
sign  of  the  raging  discontent  that  steamed  in  his 
entrails,  was  visible  to  the  naked  eye. 

Felicia  Halstead  was  instantly  aroused,  first  —  as 
was  natural  to  her  sweet  temperament  —  to  sympa- 
thy for  him  ;  then  to  a  joy  and  satisfaction  for  her- 
self. 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  come,"  she  said,  "but 
—  but  —  I  hoped  it.  That  is  why  I  sent  the  tele- 
gram. I  could  not  come  to  see  you  again,  Regi- 
nald, for  I  felt  that  you  did  not  want  me  ;  that  you 
looked  upon  me  for  the  first  time  as  an  enemy.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  stay  in  London  without 
seeing  you,  so  I  wrote  to  my  sisters  and  told  them 
to  expect  me  in  Liverpool.  You  have  forgiven 
me,  Reginald  ?  I  can  see  that  you  have.  You 
realize  now  that  no  disloyal  thought  has  ever  en- 
tered my  head,  and  that  the  stage  —  the  horrible 
stage  that  separated  us  —  is  a  nightmare,  in  my 
eyes." 

How  very  easy  it  was,  after  all,  thought  Regi- 
nald. And  for  an  instant  he  felt  the  need  of  break- 
ing once  more  into  a  storm  of  abuse  and  of  over- 
whelming her  again  with  fierce  invective.  For  he 
did  not  believe  a  word  that  she  uttered  —  he  could 
not.  To  him,  it  was  quite  impossible  that  a  woman 
whom  the  little  bookmonger  in  the  station  had 


"  Marry  Me  Felicia  "  95 

recognized  as  the  actress  of  the  hour,  could  lightly 
disregard  such  adulation.  He  checked  himself, 
however,  and  forced  himself  to  sit  by  Felicia's 
side. 

"  I  was  wrong,  Felicia,"  he  said,  after  a  pause 
that  was  necessary  to  him.  "  I  was  terribly  shocked 

by  my "  (he  stumbled  and  could  not  utter  the 

word  at  first.  Then  he  forced  himself,  and  man- 
aged to  murmur  it)  "  my  failure.  It  was  a  bitter 
blow  to  me,  Felicia.  I  have  been  ill  since  I  saw 
you  last — unable  to  leave  the  house.  I  have  suf- 
fered agonies,  both  physical  and  mental." 

The  ego-maniac,  unable  to  indulge  in  brutality, 
seeks  to  awaken  sympathy  for  himself  as  a  last 
resource.  Reginald  Rellerick  felt  a  genuine  dis- 
tress as  he  talked  of  his  imaginary  ailments.  It 
was  almost  a  pleasure  to  depict  them.  But  his 
words  told  upon  Felicia,  and  through  her  leaden 
dejection  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  crept. 

"  You  are  a  silly  boy,"  she  said,  lightly,  in  the 
tones  of  the  sympathetic  woman  attempting  to 
administer  comfort,  "  and  I  can't  understand  you. 
Every  actor  has  his  ups  and  downs  "  (Reginald 
shivered)  "  and  because  you  were  less  successful  in 
this  new  play  than  you  have  been  in  others  you 
worry  yourself  sick.  I  am  angry  with  myself  for 
not  having  been  with  you,  for  I  see  that  perhaps 
I  exaggerated  our  last  interview.  I  am  selfish, 
Reginald,  but — but — I  really  thought  that — that — 
you  had  begun  to  hate  me." 

Now  for  an  ounce  of  pity  in  the  actor's  breast 
for  this  fond,  dependent  girl,  you  will  say.  Surely, 


96  His  Own  Image 

even  his  nature  must  be  impressed  by  these  weakly, 
silly  words.  But,  perhaps,  you  do  not  know  the 
ego-maniac,  the  man  with  the  "  I  "  abnormally  en- 
larged. There  was  no  pity  for  Felicia  Halstead 
from  Reginald  Rellerick — nothing  but  a  sensation 
of  relief  at  the  facility  with  which  this  game  could 
be  played.  By  the  station  clock  he  saw  that  the 
train  would  leave  for  Liverpool  in  eight  minutes. 
The  men  were  still  standing  outside  the  carriages  ; 
the  matrons  were  inside,  plunged  in  the  illustrated 
papers  ;  the  giggles  of  the  girls  were  silenced  in 
the  discussion  of  sandwiches. 

"  They  tell  me  that  you  have  had  wonderful 
offers,  Felicia,"  said  Reginald — he  placed  one  hand 
before  his  eyes  and  knew  that  this  was  very  effect- 
ive— "  I  hear  that  managers  have  tried  to  rob  me 
of  my  little  actress  ;  that  they  have  promised  to 
'  star '  her,  to  take  her  to  America,  to  build  a  theatre 
for  her.  It  is  true,  is  it  not  ?  And  has  she  lis- 
tened to  all  these  persuasive  voices?" 

He  touched  her  arm  and  noticed  the  little  gold 
bracelet  with  the  padlock  that  he  had  given  her. 
That  was  still  there,  at  any  rate. 

"  What  do  I  care  for  managers  and  theatres  and 
America  ?"  she  asked,  so  genuinely  indignant  that 
her  truth  was  unmistakable.  "What  do  I  want 
with  them  ?  It  seems  strange,  Reginald,  that  you 
should  know  me  so  little.  How  can  I  prove  to  you 
— what  I  told  you  the  other  day — that  it  is  you,  and 
you  only,  that  I  care  for  ?  These  offers  came  to 
me  unsought,  and  I  scarcely  listened  to  them. 
The  managers  whom  I  saw  retired  very  quickly.  I 


"  Marry  Me  Felicia  "  97 

told  them,  one  and  all,  that  their  inducements  were 
absolutely  useless.' 

"  Ah  !"  Reginald's  exclamation  of  utter,  glad 
relief  could  not  be  suppressed.  It  sounded  loud 
and  forbidding  in  the  echoing,  vaulted  station,  but, 
great  actor  though  he  was,  he  could  not  keep  it 
back.  He  did  the  most  advisable  thing  under  the 
circumstances.  He  glossed  it  over  and  lied  about 
it. 

"  Thank  you  for  that,  Felicia,"  he  said,  "  you 
have  taken  a  weight  from  my  mind.  I  could  not 
bear  to  think  that  you  contemplated  abandoning 
me.  After  all,  we  have  worked  together  for  a  long 
time.  Your  methods  are  my  methods.  I  have 
helped  you,  as  "  (with  a  great  effort)  "  you  have 
helped  me.  You  will  never  leave  me,  Felicia. 
Promise  me  that." 

The  young  actress  made  no  feint  at  reluctance. 
It  was  all  so  very  vital  to  her.  She  declined  to 
hesitate  a  moment.  "  Of  course  I  promise  it,  Regi- 
nald," she  said.  "  You  know  it,  even  without  such 
a  promise — or,  at  least  you  would  know  it,  if  you 
were  not  such  a  foolish,  blind  old  bat,  that  can't  see 
and  won't  see,  and  has  to  be  taught  to  see." 

He  looked  once  more  at  the  big,  round  face  of 
the  station  clock.  Four  minutes  remained — less 
than  four  minutes,  for  Mrs.  Landington  would  hurry 
up  with  the  tickets  and  her  interminable  small-talk. 
The  train  was  beginning  to  tremble  uneasily. 

"  Felicia,"  he  said — he  must  really  get  it  over, 
for  all  this  sentimental  nonsense  was  unendurable 
. — "  what  has  happened  this  time,  may  happen  again, 


98  His  Own  Image 

Each  time  it  occurs  my  heart  will  suffer  as  it  has 
suffered  during  the  past  week.  I  shall  live  in  per- 
petual dread  of  your  leaving  me.  You  really  might 
be  induced  to  do  it,  you  know.  Don't  protest,  for 
human  nature — the  best  of  it — is  unreliable.  Marry 
me,  Felicia.  Be  my  wife.  Then  nothing  can  ever 
separate  us.  My  enemies  may  do  their  worst ;  they 
will  be  your  enemies,  as  well.  That  is  the  only 
thing  to  do."  (Then  feeling  that  this  parchment- 
like  declaration  might  cause  a  sensation  of  revolt 
in  Felicia's  heart,  he  added  a  flavouring  of  senti- 
ment.) "  You  know  that  I  love  you,  dear.  You 
must  have  known  that.  You  will  consent,  I  am 
sure." 

The  young  actress,  even  after  having  listened  to 
the  diplomatic,  sordid  words  of  Mrs.  Landington, 
was  unable  to  link  them  with  this  heaven-sent 
declaration,  even  though  it  happened  to  be  the  very 
thing  that  the  housekeeper  had  foreseen.  The  sun 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  appeared  in  a  glory  of 
red  and  gold.  Her  heart  leaped  joyfully  within 
her.  She  tore  the  glove  from  her  hand  and  gave 
him  her  cool,  bare  fingers.  For  a  moment  she 
could  not  speak,  and  Reginald  glanced  uneasily  at 
the  clock.  Two  minutes. 

"  I  will  be  your  wife  whenever  you  like,"  she  said 
simply.  "  It  doesn't  matter  to  me  when.  I  shall 
stay  in  Lancashire  for  three  weeks.  When  I  re- 
turn, if  you  so  will  it,  I  will  marry  you.  Reginald, 
do  not  doubt  me  any  more.  Tell  me  that  this  time 
you  believe  in  me  fully,  irrevocably,  eternally." 

Her  eyes  were  wet.     The  tears  sparkled  on  her 


"  Marry  Me,  Felicia  "  99 

lashes.  There  was  no  lovelier  picture  in  all  Lon- 
don than  this  overjoyed  Lancashire  lassie,  whose 
nature  the  metropolis  had  been  powerless  to  spoil. 

"  I  will  doubt  you  no  more,"  he  promised,  gen- 
uinely pleased  at  his  own  victory.  Then — for  the 
sake  of  colour — he  forced  himself  to  add  (and  it 
was  with  difficulty  he  succeeded)  "  my  dearest." 

One  minute  more.  "  Take  your  seats,"  cried 
the  porters.  Mrs.  Landington,  all  out  of  breath 
and  perspiring  copiously,  hove  into  sight  with  the 
tickets.  Reginald  Rellerick  hastened  to  secure  a 
compartment  for  Felicia — a  dreadful  fear  that  she 
might  miss  her  train  seizing  him  and  causing  him 
to  wonder  what  he  could  do  with  her,  in  the  new 
position  she  held  toward  him.  A  carriage  occu- 
pied by  a  couple  of  bicyclists  was  the  only  avail- 
able one.  He  pushed  her  in  and  caught  the  ticket 
from  the  housekeeper's  outstretched  hand. 

Mrs.  Landington,  in  all  her  hurry  and  excite- 
ment, was  unable  to  prevent  a  triumphant  "  I-told- 
you-so  "  look  from  creeping  into  her  face,  as  she 
saw  Reginald  Rellerick  and  noted  the  change  in 
Felicia  Halstead's  expression. 

"  I  nearly  lost  myself,"  she  shouted  into  the  car- 
riage "  in  this  beastly  station.  Such  uncivil  peo- 
ple, such  boors  I've  never  met.  Good-bye,  my 
dear.  Write  me  from  Liverpool.  If  any  more 
managers  call,  I'll  let  you  know,  and " 

There  was  a  snort  and  a  whistle.  The  train 
steamed  out  of  Euston.  Felicia's  gold  head  hung 
from  the  window.  She  kissed  her  ungloved  hand 
to  the  great  actor.  Reginald  Rellerick  turned 


TOO  His  Own  Image 

away,  the  contempt  and  hatred  in  his  face  once 
more  holding  sway  there.  He  had  forgotten  the 
fat,  alpaca  housekeeper.  She  stood  there,  pant- 
ingly  radiant,  having  uttered  her  last  words  to 
Felicia  for  his  especial  benefit. 

Mrs.  Landington's  views  had  changed  within  the 
last  week.  The  influence  of  the  kind  and  necessary 
"  employer "  had  grown  smaller.  She  had  seen 
that  Felicia  could  be  richer,  more  powerful  and 
more  popular  Without  him,  if  she  chose  Her  own 
position,  at  any  rate,  was  certain,  however  matters 
turned  out.  She  was  a  trifle  more  independent 
than  usual,  therefore,  as  she  spoke  to  him. 

"  I'm  glad  she's  gone,"  were  her  words,  "  she's 
been  a-worrying  herself  sick,  poor  thing.  And  the 
managers  a-rushing  to  the  house  as  though  crazy. 
She's  feathered  her  nest,  Mr.  Rellerick.  Felicia 
Halstead  won't  starve.  That's  sure." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  assented  the  great  actor,  bow- 
ing in  the  most  courtly  manner  to  the  stout  lady. 
"  It  is  very  sure  I'm  going  to  marry  Miss  Felicia 
Halstead — and  I  don't  think  I  am  going  to  starve 
just  yet." 

Mrs.  Landington  instantly  adjusted  herself  to  the 
new  situation.  If  Felicia  had  decided  to  leave  her 
good,  kind  "  employer,"  Mrs.  Landington,  aware 
of  her  young  charge's  growing  power,  would  have 
ruthlessly  snubbed  him,  in  the  most  graceful,  East- 
London  manner.  The  girl  had  accepted  him  as  her 
huband,  however.  The  relative  position  of  the 
three  was  virtually  unchanged.  Before  one  new 
minute  had  been  marked  on  the  round  station- 


"  Marry  Me,  Felicia  "  101 

clock,  the  housekeeper  had  returned  to  her  former 
abjectly  obsequious  manner. 

"  Well,  and  I'm  sure  and  I  wish  you  joy,"  she 
said  "  Miss  'Alstead's  a  nice,  respectable  lady,  and 
she's  wrapt  up  in  you.  I  'ope  to  be  with  you  both 
as  I've  been  with  'er,  and  I  shall  always  endeavour 
to  do  my  best,  I'm  sure." 

Mr.  Rellerick  called  a  hansom  and  urged  her  into 
it,  feeling  that  if  he  didn't,  there  were  some  cruel 
and  uncomfortable  moments  in  store  for  him.  It 
was  not  until  he  had  seen  the  tired  horse  pulling 
her  out  of  Euston,  that  he  slowly  followed. 

The  air  seemed  keen  and  bracing.  The  Euston 
Road  looked  less  formidable  and  ugly.  He  walked 
along  its  turbulent,  kaleidoscopic  length,  and 
emerged,  still  according  to  "the  fix'd  events  of 
fate's  remote  decrees,"  into  the  Marylebone  Road. 


Chapter  VII 

AT  TUSSAUD'S. 

THE  Marylebone  Road  is  the  great  goal  of  the 
sight-seeing  picnic-mongers  that  infest  London  ; 
for  it  contains  the  crimsonly  ornate  edifice  known 
as  "  Madame  Tussaud's," — an  edifice  devoted  to 
what  the  late  George  Augustus  Sala  called  "  a 
world-wide  display  of  ceroplastic  art.'"  Abomina- 
bly accessible  and  dreadfully  "convenient "  to 
everything  in  London  or  outside  of  it,  this  large 
and  hectic  building  cannot  be  avoided.  Omni- 
buses rush  at  it  from  Baker  Street,  and  the  metro- 
politan underground  railway  vomits  forth  crowds 
that  clamour  for  a  mixed  shilling's  worth  of  history, 
biography,  sensation  and  horrors.  The  juvenile 
Londoner  sees  "  Madame  Tussaud's "  before  his 
teens  have  set  in — never  afterward  if  he  can  help 
it.  At  that  age,  the  boiled  queens,  meltable  kings, 
plastic  criminals  and  adjustable  celebrities,  appeal 
to  him  with  all  the  vivid  illusion  of  corpses.  The 
years  bring  him  no  desire  to  revive  those  illusions. 
Most  Londoners  have  seen  "  Madame  Tussaud's." 
They  rejoice  in  that  fact,  for  no  fantastic  duty 
compels  them  to  see  it  again.  But  the  sight-seers 
go  to  the  Marylebone  Road,  in  all  ages  and  condi- 

.[102] 


At  TussaucTs  103 

tions,  led  there  by  guidebooks,  and  kept  there  by 
cunning  catalogues.  The  effects  of  colour  and 
costume  upon  cheap  minds  is  invariable.  The 
picnicking  sight-seers  who  would  vote  a  collection  of 
marvellous  sculpture  cut  by  famous  artists  in  im- 
perishable marble,  as  "slow"  and  unimpressive, 
hasten  to  Madame  Tussaud's  for  the  palatable  and 
easily-digested  entertainment  of  almost  libellous 
figures,  with  the  yellow  of  death  on  their  faces  ; 
the  decay  of  months  in  their  clothes,  and  a  lack  of 
all  photographic  veracity  in  their  careless  con- 
tours. 

As  Reginald  Rellerick  stepped  in  front  of  Mad- 
ame Tussaud's  Exhibition,  he  noticed  a  large  poster 
setting  forth  the  vivacious  fact  that  a  brand-new 
figure  of  Dejazet,  the  notorious  murderer,  who  had 
expiated  his  crime  on  the  guillotine  at  Paris,  three 
days  ago,  had  been  added  to  the  collection.  "  Life- 
like," said  the  poster,  "  and  absolutely  true  to 
nature ;  the  face  was  modelled  from  a  cast  taken 
after  death." 

The  great  actor  knew  nothing  whatsoever  about 
Dejazet.  He  had  been  too  engrossingly  absorbed 
in  the  details  of  his  own  drooping  career,  to  pay  any 
attention  to  the  published  accounts  of  a  criminal 
cause  cttcbre.  Moreover,  Mr.  Rellerick  rarely  read 
the  daily  papers.  Crampton  supplied  him  with  all 
those  points  in  the  world's  daily  history  that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  assimilate.  He  was  not  vul- 
garly curious.  He  liked  to  read  his  own  history  in 
a  nation's  eyes  occasionally.  That  of  other  people 
was  not  particularly  stimulating. 


104  His  Own  Image 

He  viewed  the  poster  before  him  with  a  silly  and 
unintelligible  feeling  of  semi-envy.  The  ego-maniac 
is  jealous  of  every  human  thing  that  temporarily 
monopolizes  the  world's  attention.  Rellerick  felt 
just  a  momentary  sensation  of  anger,  as  he  noted 
the  gaping  crowd  devoted  to  Dejazet's  name.  The 
line  that  separates  notoriety  from  fame  is  after  all 
very  feebly  defined.  For  some  minds  it  is  not  de- 
fined at  all,  as  the  students  of  medical  jurisprudence 
will  testify. 

Reginald's  pang  passed  quickly  away.  He  him- 
self was  ignorant  of  its  ephemeral  existence.  A 
whimsical  idea  to  enter  this  flushed  and  impudent 
!<  exhibition  "  occurred  to  him.  He  had  seen  it 
twice — once,  when  he  was  a  boy  for  whom  the  effi- 
gies of  Anne  Boleyn,  Katharine  of  Arragon,  Jane 
Seymour,  Anne  of  Cleves  and  Catherine  Parr  had 
adequately  illustrated  the  sensational  history  of 
Henry  VIII ;  and,  again,  when  the  Tussaud  people 
had  invited  him  to  view  a  ridiculous  waxen  monu- 
ment dedicated  to  his  own  greatness.  The  actor 
felt  lighter  and  happier  than  he  had  felt  since  the 
fatal  performance  that  had  closed  his  theatrical 
season.  His  interview  with  Felicia  at  Euston  Sta- 
tion had  been  so  eminently  satisfactory  that  his 
spirits  were  volatile  and  his  mind  at  rest. 

The  crowd  filed  in  to  gape  through  the  various 
halls  and  seek  a  temporary  self-forgetfulness  in  the 
contemplation  of  extinct  and  famous  others.  Reg- 
inald paid  his  silver  tribute  with  the  rest  and  en- 
tered the  building.  He  smiled  rather  wanly  as  he 
contemplated  this  climax  to  a  plebeian  day  that  had 


At  Tussaud's  105 

begun  in  the  Euston  Road  and  had  paused  in  the 
Euston  Station. 

The  exhibition  was  lighted  up  and  a  fitful  Hun- 
garian band  was  squeezing  out  "  popular  "  music — 
music  that  might  have  convulsed  the  waxen  con- 
gress of  kings  and  queens  if  anything  on  earth 
could  have  affected  their  immutability.  Reginald 
bought  a  catalogue  in  order  to  insult  the  lifeless 
figures,  as  the  mob  insulted  them,  by  labelling  them 
with  the  names  of  the  illustrious.  Half  the  joy 
that  attends  a  visit  to  Madame  Tussaud's  is  due  to 
the  human  ecstasy  of  insult — the  ferocious  idea  of 
dubbing  a  calm  and  helpless  mound  of  yellow  wax 
George  III,  or  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  of  Russia. 

The  actor's  spirits  sank  as  he  found  himself  sur- 
rounded by  these  staring,  ghostly,  tallowy  dolls. 
How  sinister  and  how  silent  they  were  !  How  ut- 
terly regardless  of  the  hushed  voices  of  the  cata- 
logue-reading throng  they  seemed  to  be  ;  and  yet 
what  a  tribute  the  involuntarily  lowered  tones  of 
the  multitude  were  to  their  bloodless  and  unrea- 
soning power! 

They  overpowered  him  as  they  stood  there  on 
their  pedestals,  waiting  to  be  insulted  by  the  sight- 
seers— so  dead,  and  sere,  and  boiled,  and  sensation- 
less.  To  the  trained  imagination  of  the  actor  they 
did  not  seem  like  real  men  and  women,  suddenly 
mesmerized,  or  robbed  of  life.  They  appealed  to 
him  as  intangible  phantoms,  and  a  chill  went  down 
his  spine  as  he  forced  himself  to  contemplate  them. 
They  unnerved  him  as  their  open,  glassy,  meaning- 
less eyes  met  his  own,  and  he  could  not  believe 


io6  His  Own  Image 

that  they  stood  there  merely  for  the  easy  delecta- 
tion of  these  groups  of  hungry  sight-seers.  The 
massive  breasts  that  neither  rose  nor  fell,  oppressed 
him  with  a  heavy  sense  of  melancholy,  and  he 
shuddered  at  the  hatefully  smooth  and  nailless 
fingers,  that  were  moulded  into  a  wicked  semblance 
of  life.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of  turning  back 
and  going  out  again  into  the  Marylebone  Road, 
where  things  moved  and  pulsated.  This  chamber  of 
death  that  had  never  been  life,  seemed  to  be  singu- 
larly distressing.  He  wondered  why.  He  asked 
himself  if  his  actor's  imagination  were  more  suscep- 
tible to  impressions  than  that  of  the  healthy, 
thoughtless  crowd. 

He  tried  to  recall  his  early  historical,  school-boy 
delight  in  the  halls  of  royalty.  He  looked  at  his 
catalogue  and  learnt  that  the  jaundiced  atrocity  at 
which  he  was  gazing  was  Matilda  of  Flanders,  wife 
of  King  William  I.  "  She  was  celebrated  for  her 
beauty,  and  she  greatly  encouraged  her  husband 
to  attempt  the  conquest  of  England."  How  cruel, 
how  irrelevant  these  words  sounded  !  Was  this  the 
reward  of  Matilda's  beauty  and  wifely  encourage- 
ment— this  ignominious  reign  on  a  platform  in  a 
cheap  museum,  in  the  midst  of  an  unappreciative 
and  irreverent  city  ?  How  much  better  it  would 
have  been  for  Matilda  if  she  had  been  hideous,  and 
had  left  her  husband  to  his  own  devices  ! 

Some  youths  were  gazing  in  rapt  attention  at 
the  effigy  of  "  Berengaria,  Consort  of  Richard  I," 
and  many  of  the  remarks  they  made  were  neither 
chaste  nor  elegant.  They  called  the  queen  of  their 


At  Tussaud's  107 

remote  ancestors  "the  old  girl,"  and  they  laughed 
at  her  soundless  lips  and  her  mouldy  attire.  "  She 
lies  buried  in  the  Abbey  of  L'Espan,  near  Le 
Mans,"  said  the  catalogue.  Reginald  could  have 
smitten  the  gibing  boys  as  they  stood  there — in- 
sects of  to-day,  jeering  at  the  phantoms  of  the 
past. 

It  was  exhausting  and  he  began  to  loathe  it  all. 
Why  had  he  entered  this  sarcophagus  ?  What  un- 
known force  had  induced  him  to  slip  from  his  hab- 
its of  exclusiveness  and  join  this  collection  of  un- 
sympathetic men,  preying  like  vampires  on  the 
waxen  bodies  of  Tussaud's  exhibition  ?  Why  did 
it  affect  him  so  strangely  ? 

Still  he  wandered  around  among  the  kings  and 
queens,  and  attempted  by  a  supreme  mental  effort 
to  feel  a  cold  and  respectable  interest  in  the  imagined 
forms  of  Isabella  of  Valois,  Joan  of  Navarre,  the 
Georges  and  the  Edwards  and  the  Richards.  They 
sickened  him,  and  lowered  his  vitality.  They  made 
him  creep,  and  filled  him  with  genuine  gusts  of  hor- 
ror. It  was  absurd  ;  it  was  childish  ;  it  was  laugh- 
able but — but  he  could  not  laugh.  He  could  not 
smile  or  even  relax  the  hard  and  painful  tension  of 
his  features.  The  fitful  Hungarian  band  continued 
to  squeeze  out  tunes,  each  of  which  went  through 
him  like  a  knife.  Surely  even  this  careless  orange- 
peel  mob  must  feel  the  impropriety  of  waltzes  and 
polkas,  rung  out  among  these  cadaverous  effigies. 
Was  the  English  public  utterly  devoid  of  imagina- 
tion? 

Sandwiched  in  between  Martin  Luther  and  Col- 


io8  His  Own  Image 

onel  Fred  Burnaby,  he  saw  his  own  waxen  repre- 
sentation, attired  in  the  costume  of  Hamlet.  If  it 
had  really  looked  like  him  !  A  frisson  of  horror 
raised  his  hair  as  he  thought  of  that  improbability. 
The  figure  labelled  "  Reginald  Rellerick "  was 
simply  inane.  In  no  line  or  feature  did  it  resemble 
him.  The  mob  that  looked  at  it  with  him,  never 
even  guessed  that  the  living  Rellerick  was  in  their 
midst.  The  face  was  ugly,  expressionless  and  old. 
But  these  facts  did  not  affect  him  at  all,  for  he  felt 
that  he  was  looking  at  anybody  else.  Probably 
this  waxen  Rellerick  was  some  unpopular  knight 
or  fading  celebrity,  stewed  down  to  meet  the  exi- 
gencies of  his  own  case.  It  was  a  ragout  of  unused 
figures,  flavoured  with  the  Hamlet  garbs  that  he 
had  once  popularized.  Yes,  the  clothes  were  cor- 
rect. They  were  neatly  copied  from  those  that  he 
had  worn  ten  years  ago,  when  his  name  first 
stamped  itself  upon  London.  Irving,  Ellen  Terry 
and  the  Bancrofts  were  there,  in  his  vicinity — por- 
traits that  their  own  mothers  would  never  recog- 
nize, but  waxy,  vacant,  corpse-like  and  uncanny  as 
the  rest. 

He  heard  somebody  suggest  a  visit  to  the  Cham- 
ber of  Horrors,  where  the  "  brand-new  figure  of 
Dejazet,  the  French  murderer,"  was  on  view.  The 
Chamber  of  Horrors  !  He  could  imagine  nothing 
more  horrible  than  those  chambers  through  which 
his  unwilling  feet  had  already  pushed  him.  Possi- 
bly the  Chamber  of  Horrors  was  less  detestable 
because  its  detestability  was  blazoned  forth  and 
the  public  was  invited  there  to  be  thrilled  and 


At  Tussaud's  109 

amazed.  He  had  seen  enough  of  this  exhibition, 
however.  A  cowardly  dread  of  more  gaunt  and 
tongueless  people  induced  him  to  retrace  his  steps. 
The  incoming  crowd  was  thick  and  furious.  He 
could  not  get  back  without  wedging  himself  into  a 
mass  of  uncivil  men  and  women  bent  on  getting 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  their  "  money's  worth." 
He  must  move  with  the  tide  and  the  tide  was  flow- 
ing into  the  Chamber  of  Horrors. 

So  to  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  he  went,  mentally 
protesting  against  his  own  weakness.  What  would 
Crampton  say  if  he  could  see  his  famous  master, 
struggling  to  gaze  at  the  saffron  monsters  of  Maryle- 
bone  Road — struggling  with  the  Toms  and  the 
Dicks  and  the  Harry's  for  a  good  position  from 
which  to  view  the  repulsive  objects  ?  Felicia  Hal- 
stead,  in  the  panting  train  bound  for  Liverpool, 
would  probably  ascribe  his  action  to  the  common 
impetus  of  curiosity.  Madame  Tussaud's  was 
exactly  her  style.  He  could  almost  see  her  with 
the  heated  odour-reeking  women  around  him^ 
ah-ing  and  oh-ing  before  each  figure,  admiring  the 
beauties  and  the  celebrities,  and  expressing  dismay 
at  the  criminals  and  the  outcasts.  This,  to  her  pro- 
vincial mind,  would  be  "  entertainment."  How  she 
would  enjoy  a  day  in  this  odious  vault  with  him  ! 
He  could  hear  her  volunteering  quite  unnecessary 
explanations.  He  could  almost  smell  the  bag  of 
chocolate-drops  that  she  invariably  carried  for  re- 
freshment to  just  such  places.  Felicia  was  cheap 
and  happy ;  he  was  rare  and  miserable. 

The   Chamber  of   Horrors    was    appropriately 


no  His  Own  Image 

gloomy  and  cavernous.  He  could  scarcely  hear 
the  Hungarian  band  or  see  the  gay  illumination  of 
the  other  halls.  Deeper  became  his  sensation  of 
oppression.  Lead  seemed  to  clog  his  footsteps  and 
to  hold  him  back.  The  voices  of  the  mob  grew 
even  lower  than  they  had  been  previously.  Men 
and  women  were  bent  upon  seeing  the  whole 
ghastly  show,  and  paid  their  additional  sixpence 
for  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  with  almost  pic- 
turesque alacrity. 

Reginald  Rellerick  felt  damp  and  unstrung.  His 
life  seemed  to  be  an  uncertain  quantity,  as  it  does 
in  the  eerie  hours  before  sunrise.  Yet  he  forced 
himself  to  look  about  him,  and  fingered  his  cata- 
logue nervously.  His  ringers  left  wet  marks  upon 
the  pages.  The  impression  of  his  thumb  was  dis- 
tinctly visible. 

The  waxen  murderers,  however,  looked  no  whit 
more  terrible  than  did  the  collection  of  kings  and 
queens  and  patriots  and  orators.  "  James  Lee,  the 
Romford  murderer," — he  saw  him  vaguely  and  stu- 
pidly ;  "  Marguerite  Diblanc,  the  murderess  of 
Madame  Riel  in  Park  Lane," — he  noticed  her  with 
awe  in  his  eyes.  She  had  been  a  cook  and  she  looked 
it.  "  Michael  Eyraud,  a  strangler  executed  in  the 
Place  de  la  Roquette,  Paris," — Reginald's  eyes  were 
dim  as  he  gazed  at  this  waxen  memorial. 

The  mob  read  everything  that  the  grudging  cat- 
alogue vouchsafed,  and  hungered  for  more.  The 
meagre  details  were  insufficient.  What  of  the  child- 
hood, the  later  history,  and  the  personal  character- 
istics of  these  wretches  ?  The  'Arries  and  the 


At  Tussaud's  in 

'Arriets  clamoured  for  these,  and  nothing  of  the 
sort  was  forthcoming.  They  could  imagine  nothing. 
For  London  sight-seers  every  "  i  "  must  be  dotted 
and  every  "  t  "  crossed. 

There  was  a  huge  stationary  crowd  in  front  of 
the  new  figure — that  of  Dejazet,  who  had  died  three 
days  ago,  and  to  whom  the  London  papers  had 
devoted  columns  of  space.  Reginald  followed  the 
procession,  but  Dejazet  was  invisible.  He  would 
be  obliged  to  wait  his  turn — to  stand  there  until 
the  people  had  satiated  themselves  with  the  details 
of  De"jazet's  personality. 

His  elbows,  pushed  by  the  crowd  behind  him, 
were  forced  into  a  wide  expanse  of  serge-covered 
back,  the  owner  of  which,  inconvenienced  in  his 
open-mouthed  study  of  the  dead  Dejazet,  turned 
upon  the  great  actor,  instantly  insolent. 

"No  pushing,  mister,"  said  he,  rudely.  "Your 
turn'll  come.  You'll  'ave  to  wait  with  the " 

The  sentence  was  unfinished.  The  country  lout 
suddenly  paused,  and  stared  at  the  great  actor  with 
eyes  in  which  a  sort  of  puzzled  astonishment  was 
visible.  Then  he  nudged  the  woman  at  his  side  and 
whispered  a  few  words  in  her  ear.  She  imme- 
diately moved  her  head  and  looked  over  her  shoul- 
der at  Mr.  Rellerick.  In  her  eyes  was  the  same 
expression  of  curious  amazement.  The  masculine 
and  feminine  louts  were  soon  whispering  and  titter- 
ing, quite  oblivious  of  the  waxen  brute  that  they 
had  just  studied  in  silent  awe.  They  were  urged 
on  by  the  crowd,  however,  and  passed  out  of 
sight. 


ii2  His  Own  Image 

Reginald  was  weak  from  the  varied  sensations 
that  this  hideous  wax-work  show  had  called  forth. 
Now  he  grew  physically  weary,  as  he  stood  waiting 
before  the  hidden  effigy  of  the  murderer,  unable  to 
turn  either  backward  or  forward.  He  was  de- 
pendent upon  the  caprices  of  the  people  in  front  of 
him — people  who  had  paid  out  their  "  good 
money"  and  intended  to  realize  its  value  as  much 
as  possible.  Nearly  ten  minutes  passed  before  the 
strata  of  perspiring  humanity  had  given  to  Mr. 
Rellerick  a  position  in  the  front  ranks. 

By  that  time  he  was  scarcely  able  to  stand. 
Listlessly  he  took  his  catalogue,  opened  it,  and 
read  the  "synopsis  "  of  De"jazet's  career,  before  he 
studied  the  figure  itself.  The  Frenchman  had  been 
an  artist  in  Paris — an  artist  of  renown.  He  had 
lived  a  wild  and  untrammelled  life,  and  he  was 
known  in  the  Quartier  Latin  as  the  most  reckless 
of  an  aggressively  reckless  set.  He  had  a  mistress 
— the  beautiful  Genevieve  Delaunay.  For  years 
the  two  had  indulged  in  an  irregular  "  manage" 
that  the  entire  Quartier  had  visited.  Genevieve, 
however,  was  the  daughter  of  a  noble  and  almost 
classic  family  living  near  Lyons.  Her  relatives 
had  hunted  for  her  without  success.  When  they 
found  her,  she  was  discovered  living  a  Bohemian 
life  as  the  mistress  of  Dejazet.  Thereupon  the 
father  insisted  that  Dejazet  should  marry  the  girl, 
for  the  sake  of  her  name,  which  was  illustrious. 
De"jazet  declined,  but  suggested  that  he  should  fight 
a  duel  with  Genevieve's  brother.  If  he  were  vic- 
torious, Genevieve  should  go  back  to  her  relatives 


At  Tussaud's  113 

near  Lyons.  If  he  were  vanquished,  he  would 
marry  her.  The  duel  was  fought,  and  Dejazet  was 
slightly  wounded.  Genevieve's  brother  was  master 
of  the  situation.  Dejazet  redeemed  his  promise 
grudgingly.  A  bitter  hatred  of  Genevieve  had 
taken  possession  of  him — a  horror  of  her  seemed 
to  have  arisen  within  him.  He  was  forced  to  the 
marriage  almost  at  the  point  of  the  sword.  On 
the  wedding  night,  unable  to  overcome  his  loathing 
for  his  former  mistress,  he  strangled  her  and  tried 
to  escape  to  London.  Her  body  was  found  with 
four  black  finger-marks  on  the  throat.  Dejazet  was 
captured,  and,  without  any  reluctance  whatsoever, 
confessed  his  crime,  the  result  of  which  was — 
death  by  the  guillotine,  and  Madame  Tussaud's  in 
wax.  And  the  catalogue,  in  a  burst  of  confidence, 
added  :  "  And  these  are  the  last  clothes  that  he 
wore." 

Reginald  read  it  all  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  stupor. 
Then  he  looked  up  at  the  gruesome  yellow  figure 
before  him.  The  distant  strains  of  the  Hungarian 
band  throbbed  in  his  ears.  The  sombre  vault  with 
its  galaxy  of  monsters  seemed  to  close  around  him. 
It  was  Dejazet  he  was  looking  at — it  must  have 
been  Dejazet,  for  all  the  people  said  so — but  the 
tawny,  glass-eyed,  soulless  image  before  him  was  in 
every  line  and  feature — himself.  There  he  stood, 
fixed  to  the  ground,  gazing  at  his  own  waxen 
double,  an  indescribable  terror  rendering  him  sta- 
tionary. Fascinated,  he  peered  at  the  repulsive 
thing.  Those  were  his  own  eyes  set  forth  in  glass  ; 
those  were  his  own  features  moulded  in  the  filthy 


ii4  His  Own  Image 

wax.  The  smooth  and  nailless  hands  were  counter- 
parts of  his  own  ;  the  grim,  unyielding,  selfish, 
unsympathetic  mouth  was  a  copy  of  his  own.  The 
hair,  the  moustache,  the  eyelashes  were  unmistak- 
able. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Reginald  Rel. 
lerick  beheld  his  own  likeness  with  a  sensation  of 
such  bitter  repugnance,  that  he  was  appalled. 

He  could  not  move  ;  he  was  glued  there.  He 
heard  the  people  around  him,  vigorously  comment- 
ing on  the  face  of  the  criminal.  The  sound  of 
their  voices  discussing  the  details  of  his  infamy 
reached  him.  How  could  a  girl  like  this  Genevieve 
Delaunay  have  possibly  been  under  his  influence  ? 
How  could  she  have  lived  with  him  as  his  mistress 
and  have  been  willing  to  become  his  wife?  Why 
were  women  so  foolish  and  so  unreasoning? 
Really,  it  almost  served  her  right.  Surely  with  a 
face  like  that  she  should  have  known — and  so  on, 
in  balefully  querulous  logic. 

And  still  the  great  actor  stared  as  though  hyp- 
notized. The  glass  eyes  seemed  to  return  his  look 
in  a  sort  of  cynical  sympathy.  The  saffron-tinted, 
waxen  mouth  appeared  almost  to  twist  itself  into  a 
smile,  as  he  stared — and  stared — and  stared. 

The  people  looked  at  him  and  noticed  the  resem- 
blance, laughingly  and  good-naturedly.  To  them, 
this  was  an  unexpected  relaxation  from  the  oppres- 
sion of  this  funereal  grotto.  They  whispered 
about  it,  and  alluded  to  it,  as  to  the  merriest  coin- 
cidence. Such  coincidences  were  not  rare.  The 
clothes  worn  by  the  mimic  De"jazet  were  the  stum- 
bling-block  to  this  audience's  complete  apprecia- 


At  Tussaud's  115 

tion  of  the  likeness  to  Rellerick.  Clothes  mean  so 
much  to  vulgar  and  uneducated  minds.  Had  this 
yellow  ceroplastic  horror  aped  the  polite  frock- 
coat,  the  shining,  bulging  silk  hat,  and  the  irre- 
proachable neck  ribbon  that  the  great  actor  wore, 
these  men  and  women  would  have  been  riddled 
with  awe  and  curiosity.  As  it  was  there  was  a 
striking  resemblance,  and  they  were  quite  good- 
humoured  about  it. 

"Say,  Mister,"  remarked  one  old  person  with 
whiskers,  "  next  time  you  sit  for  these  Tussauds 
don't  choose  a  murderer.  Be  a  king,  or  a  prince, 
or  a  prime-minister.  He  !  he  !  he  !" 

"  Makes  you  feel  as  though  you  was  small  pota- 
toes, eh?"  asked  one  of  those  friendly  London 
matrons  to  be  met  at  all  the  "  exhibitions." 

They  went  away,  and  were  soon  absorbed  in  other 
abominations — in  Mary  Ann  Cotton,  the  poisoner  ; 
in  Kemmler,  the  wretch  who  was  the  first  to  be 
killed  by  electricity  in  New  York,  and  Dumollard 
and  his  wife,  "  fiends  who  decoyed  young  women 
into  a  wood." 

Reginald  Rellerick  stood  there,  lost  to  all  sur- 
rounding influences,  numb  and  magnetized  by  the 
counterfeit  presentment  of  his  own  personality — 
the  personality  that  had  been  the  joy  of  his  life  ; 
the  great  solace  of  his  leisure  hours ;  his  early 
mornings'  care ;  his  daily  encouragement  to  re- 
newed labour.  What  a  loathsome  personality  it 
was — that  dual  arrangement  shared  by  Dejazet,  the 
guillotined  criminal,  and  Reginald  Rellerick,  the 
celebrated  English  actor. 


n6  His  Own  Image 

He  awoke  slowly  from  his  stupor  and  read  once 
more  the  black  legend  of  the  girl-killer.  "He  was 
forced  to  marry  her,  almost  at  the  point  of  the 
sword.  On  the  wedding-night,  unable  to  overcome 
his  loathing  for  his  former  mistress,  he  strangled 
her  and  tried  to  escape  to  London.  Her  body  was 
found  with  four  black  finger-marks  on  the  throat. 
Dejazet  was  captured,  and  without  any  reluctance 
whatsoever,  confessed  his  crime." 

Perhaps — perhaps  this  waxen  atrocity  looked  no 
more  like  the  Paris  artist  than  the  figures  of  the 
Royal  Family  resembled  their  living  inspirations. 
Reginald  thought  of  this,  but  there  was  little  con- 
solation in  the  idea.  The  face  had  been  modelled 
from  a  cast  taken  after  death.  It  was  no  whim  of 
the  modeller's  fancy.  He  had  read  the  poster  out- 
side. Why  had  he  read  the  poster  outside  ?  Why 
had  he  wandered  into  this  marrow-disturbing  re- 
sort ?  What  evil  fate  had  led  his  footsteps  in  this 
ghastly  direction  ? 

He  would  go  at  once  and  speak  to  the  "  authori- 
ties." The  figure,  merciless  and  libellous,  must  be 
removed.  He  would  not  rest  while  this  odious 
counterpart  of  a  criminal  was  held  up  to  public 
gaze  in  his  own  likeness.  They  would  laugh  at 
him.  They  would — for  the  sake  of  a  profitable 
advertisement — revel  in  'his  wrath  and  heroics. 
The  affair  would  be  paraded  in  the  newspapers  and 
his  persecutors  would  hail  a  new  field  for  contempt 
and  vituperation.  No,  he  would  utter  no  word. 
He  would  not  call  the  attention  of  the  metropolis 
to  a  foolish  coincidence — yes,  it  was  a  coincidence, 


At  Tussaud's  117 

of  course ;  even  the  mob  had  laughed  at  it  as  such. 
He  would  laugh  at  it  as  well.  He  certainly 
would  laugh.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  These  waxen  figures 
were  really  very  amusing,  extremely 

His  waxen  double  was  looking  at  him.  He  felt 
the  cold,  glassy  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  The  coloured 
lips  were  smiling;  the  figure  seemed  to  bend  in 
order  that  it  might  study  him  more  closely.  He 
knew  that  this  was  absurd.  He  realized  that  his 
imagination  was  unduly  affected  by  this  episode. 
And  then  the  surroundings — the  place  itself — the 
ugly  crowd — the  dark,  lowering  atmosphere — all 
combined  to  add  to  his  terror. 

He  would  go  at  onceand  never  set  his  foot  within 
these  precincts  again.  He  would  forget  it  all  until 
it  occurred  to  his  consciousness  as  a  joke, — one  of 
those  jokes,  the  humour  of  which  never  convinces  at 
the  time  of  perpetration.  He  closed  his  catalogue 
with  one  more  glance  at  the  words,  "  On  the  wed- 
ding night,  unable  to  overcome  his  loathing  for  his 
former  mistress,  he  strangled  her."  These  words 
seemed  to  appear  before  him,  even  after  he  had  put 
the  miserable  pamphlet  into  his  pocket. 

He  looked  straight  in  front  of  him.  There  they 
were  on  the  walls.  They  towered  over  him  on  the 
ceiling.  He  made  an  intense  effort  and  drew  him- 
self together.  This  was  folly,  idiocy,  more  than 
puerility. 

He  turned  on  his  way  out,  and  took  a  last  look 
at  his  waxen  double.  It  was  grinning  at  him. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  It  was  not  his  im- 
agination that  was  playing  him  a  trick. 


n8  His  Own  Image 

"  Dejazet !"  he  murmured,  as  he  passed  the  outer 
portal,  "  Dejazet !  Dejazet !  Dejazet !" 

He  hailed  a  hansom,  and  told  the  driver — much 
to  that  bleary-faced  individual's  bewilderment,  to 
drive  him  to  "  Dejazet."  The  air  fanned  his  humid 
forehead  and  dried  the  wisps  of  his  wet  and  strag- 
gling hair.  It  revived  him.  He  lay  there  and 
closed  his  eyes  in  an  attempt  to  think  of  other  sub- 
jects. But  he  thought  "  Dejazet ;"  in  his  mind  he 
saw  "  Dejazet."  He  felt  that  his  entity  was  merged 
in  the  wax  of  the  monster  at  Tussaud's. 


Chapter  VIII 

D£JAZET 

IT  was  scarcely  nine  o'clock  when  Reginald  dis- 
missed his  hansom  cab,  at  the  door  of  his  club.  He 
had  intended  to  drive  home,  and  plunge  his  ex- 
hausted body  into  his  big,  blue,  restful  bed,  but  he 
felt  that  his  mind  might,  perhaps,  be  easier,  after 
an  hour  spent  in  his  massive,  dark-brown  club — 
that  clearing-house  for  all  cheques  drawn  upon  the 
gossip,  malice,  and  petits  potins  of  the  metropolis. 
His  face  was  haggard,  and  drawn,  and  he  was 
ashamed  of  it — he,  Reginald  Rellerick  was  posi- 
tively ashamed  of  his  own  usually  luminous  appear- 
ance, as  the  obsequious  person  in  the  dingy  lackey- 
garb  let  him  in,  and  took  away  his  hat  and  coat. 

They  were  all  there,  in  the  "  convivial  "  smoking- 
room.  Apparently  they  had  not  stirred  from  their 
seats  since  he  had  last  seen  them  there.  Silent  as 
owls,  they  sat  drinking  the  incessant  brandy-and- 
soda,  while  the  clock  ticked  away  the  club's  life. 
The  book-reviewer  who  had  killed  and  buried  poor 
"  Gyp  "  within  the  last  week,  was  now  exercising 
his  mental  scowl  upon  the  latest  D'Annunzio  novel, 
which  he  considered  (of  course)  "  morbid  "  and 
"  unwholesome  " — utterly  inferior  in  every  way,  to 

IH.9J 


120  His  Own  Image 

the  English  health  and  spirits  of  the  exuberant 
Anthony  Hope.  The  "  hanger-on,"  with  his  legs 
crossed,  was  on  hand,  looking  at  his  watch  and 
timing  everything,  while  the  dramatic  critic  who 
was  addicted  to  unalloyed  praise  rested,  cheek-by- 
jowl,  with  the  dramatic  critic  wedded  to  unadulter- 
ated censure. 

For  a  moment  the  great  actor  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  he  had  left  Madame  Tussaud's.  This 
dark,  little  sepia-tinted  room  might  be  another 
Chamber  of  Horrors.  For  an  instant,  he  felt  in- 
clined to  refer  to  his  catalogue,  and  "  look  out " 
the  description  of  the  fat  scowler  with  the  D'An- 
nunzio  novel.  He  might  have  been  labelled  :  "  An 
English  book-reviewer  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
notorious  for  his  mutilations  of  popular  authors." 

Pinerville,  the  dramatist,  author  of  the  luckless 
play  that  had  blazoned  forth  Felicia  Halstead,  sat 
in  a  corner  of  the  room,  silent  and  meditative. 
Perhaps  he  was  contrasting  this  morgue,  with  his 
own  theatrical  version  of  club  scenes — rollicking, 
glass-tinkling,  chattering  episodes,  that  always  went 
well  with  the  public,  because  they  were  so  "  true  to 
life."  If  he  had  dramatized  this  sodden  assem- 
blage of  London  "wits,"  he  would  have  been  ac- 
cused of  drawing  upon  his  imagination. 

This  time,  Reginald  entered  his  club  almost 
unnoticed.  The  dreary  men  bowed  slightly,  but 
declined  to  disturb  themselves.  They  had  been 
dining,  and  the  process  of  digestion  was  achieving 
itself  slowly.  The  actor  was  greatly  relieved  to 
find  that  his  entrance  was  not  emphasized.  At  any 


Dejazet  121 

other  time,  he  would  have  considered  this  apathy 
in  the  light  of  an  insult.  Now,  it  gratified  him,  for 
— try  as  he  would — he  could  not  get  rid  of  a  guilty 
and  skulking  sensation  that  his  wax-work  visit  had 
foisted  upon  him.  Even  while  he  sat  in  this  room, 
there  were  crowds  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  staring 
at  his  glassy  double,  referring  to  him  in  the  cata- 
logue, ogling  him  vulgarly,  and  uttering  comments 
upon  his  appearance.  He  hated  to  think  that  he 
stood  in  that  exhibition  among  the  murderers, 
powerless  to  move  away  from  the  collection — yel- 
low and  hideous,  in  that  sombre  cavern  of  public 
"  entertainment."  He  could  not  divest  himself  of 
the  idea  that  he  had  no  right  to  be  at  large  in  these 
haunts  of  unrestricted  life.  It  seemed  to  him  as 
though  he  had  a  ticket-of-leave,  and  must  return 
to  the  Marylebone  Road  later,  to  stand  and  watch 
his  own  image  ;  to  see  that  it  was  properly  cared 
for,  and  that  the  mob  did  not  insult  it,  or  do  it 
bodily  harm. 

He  stretched  himself,  and  yawned.  He  could 
move  and  pulsate  as  readily  as  ever.  That  was  a 
consolation.  Yet  his  hands  looked  ignobly  smooth 
and  nailless,  and  he  hated  to  see  them.  They 
annoyed  him  ;  he  felt  that  his  "  convivial  "  brothers 
in  this  club  must  be  watching  him.  He  hid  them 
in  his  pockets,  and  drew  them  forth  from  time  to 
time  to  see  if  the  warmth  had  robbed  them  of  their 
cold  and  yellow  hue. 

Pinerville,  the  dramatist,  approached  him,  and 
took  a  chair  by  his  side.  He  hated  this  man  who 
had  been  responsible  for  the  first  halt  in  his  career. 


122  His  Own  Image 

The  eyes  of  the  dramatist  seemed  to  be  fixed 
upon  him  mockingly,  so  thoroughly  wrought- 
up  was  his  imagination.  Poor  little,  harmless, 
plodding  Pinerville,  who  had  never  owned  a  sin- 
ister motive  in  his  life,  was  meeker  than  usual  on 
this  occasion.  He  was  wise  enough  to  know  that 
a  play,  however  good  it  might  be,  that  had  caused 
the  discomfiture  of  a  popular  "  star  "  was  doomed 
to  the  misfortune  of  "  innocuous  desuetude." 

"  I  do  not  despair,  Mr.  Rellerick,"  he  said, 
amiably,  "  and  I  always  persevere.  I  know  that 
my  last  play  will  never  find  a  place  in  your  reper- 
toire next  season,  but  I  should  like  to  submit  to 
you  the  scenario  of  a  new  one — one  that  will  give 
you,  I  feel  sure,  the  best  opportunity  you  have  had 
for  years.  Nowadays,  I  do  not  care  to  write  for 
the  actor — for  any  particular  actor  that  is  to  say — 
but  in  this  case  I  have  a  story  that  is  so  eminently 
fitted  to  your — ahem  !  genius,  that  I  cannot  avoid 
submitting  it  to  you,  and  asking  your  permission 
to  go  ahead." 

Pinerville  was  bland  and  excessively  polite.  His 
suave,  soft  tones  fell  pleasantly  upon  Reginald  Rel- 
lerick's  ear.  The  actor  felt  once  again  that  he  was 
his  own  inimitable  self.  He  clasped  his  hands 
expectantly  around  his  knee.  They  looked  warm, 
and  pink,  and  the  white,  carefully  manicured  nails 
were  there  as  conspicuously  as  ever.  Thank 
Heaven  that  this  nightmare  seemed  to  be  vanishing  ! 
If  he  could  only  forget  !  Yet  even  as  he  tried  to 
do  so,  there  arose  before  his  mind's  eye  a  picture 
of  a  thick  and  aromatic  mob  gazing  intently  at  a 


Dejazet  123 

yellow  waxen  figure,  standing  erect  among  a  group 
of  corpse-like  horrors  in  the  Marylebone  Road 
Exhibition.  He  called  for  a  bottle  of  champagne — 
champagne  was  the  stuff  that  cleared  the  mental 
vision,  and  penetrated  the  films  of  imagination. 
He  poured  out  a  glass  for  Pinerville,  and  another 
for  himself,  which  he  drained  feverishly.  He  felt 
better.  After  all,  he  was  Reginald  Rellerick.  He 
had  been  Reginald  Rellerick  for  years.  Every 
man  in  the  club,  every  menial  in  its  kitchen,  could 
swear,  under  oath,  that  he  was  Reginald  Rellerick. 

"  Of  course  I  want  a  new  play,  Mr.  Pinerville," 
he  said,  pompously — he  could  be  pompous  again. 
'*  Your  last  play  was  good — very  good — but  some- 
how or  other  I  did  not  feel  that  I  could  do  myself 
justice  in  the  leading  character.  The  interest 
seemed  to  centre 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  dramatist,  anxious  to 
finish  with  his  dead-and-gone  creation,  "  The  inter- 
est centred  in  the  leading-lady.  It  was  a  good 
part  for  Miss  Halstead  only.  A  clever  girl — a  very 
clever  girl.  She " 

"  My  dear  Pinerville,"  said  Mr.  Rellerick,  mak- 
ing a  sickly  effort  to  smile  with  his  usual  noncha- 
lance, "  My  time  is  very  limited.  I  have  promised 
myself  a  good  night's  rest,  for  I  am  tired,  and  a 
trifle  indisposed.  If  you  will  proceed  with  the 
story  of  your  new  play  which  is  so  suited  to  me" 
(he  was  able  to  inject  a  dash  of  appropriately  in- 
credulous sarcasm  into  his  tones),  "  I  can  then  tell 
you  if  I  agree  with  you." 

"You  will,  I  am  sure,"  remarked  the  dramatist. 


is  Own  Image 


"  What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Rellerick,  to  a  part  that 
runs  the  gamut  of  the  emotions  —  one  that  will  por- 
tray you  as  loving,  and  hating,  and  dissembling,  and 
scheming  —  one  that  will  give  you  a  final  scene 
which,  I  am  quite  convinced,  will  be  as  strong  as 
anything  that  has  been  acted  upon  the  modern 
stage  ?" 

He  paused.  His  eloquence  was  running  away 
with  him.  Reginald  smiled  ;  he  was  so  used  to 
that  sort  of  thing.  Every  failure  was  heralded 
upon  his  notice  in  that  way.  An  indulgent  expres- 
sion stole  into  his  face.  Even  the  popular  Piner- 
ville  was  a  victim  to  the  conventional  playwright's 
mania.  He  sat  there  and  permitted  the  dramatist  to 
proceed.  All  his  haughty,  up-in-the-sky  manners 
were  returning  to  him,  and  he  felt  temporarily 
happy.  The  champagne  was  perhaps  responsible 
for  the  change.  It  is  an  admirable  stimulant. 

"  I  won't  say  that  I  have  captured  a  precisely 
original  idea,"  continued  Pinerville,  affably.  "  After 
all,  originality  is  a  myth.  I  read  the  papers,  Mr. 
Rellerick.  I  find  in  those  penny  records  of  daily 
life  most  of  my  inspirations.  They  are  human 
documents,  you  know,  written  in  flesh  and  blood. 
In  my  new  play,  my  idea  is  to  dramatize  as  closely 
as  possible,  with  a  few  theatrical  improvements, 
the  story  with  which  all  the  London  papers  have 
been  teeming  of  late.  You  are,  of  course,  familiar 
with  it.  Every  actor  must  be.  I  am  referring  to 
the  recent  history  of  that  clever,  artistic,  and 
dramatic  criminal,  Dejazet." 

Every    muscle    in    Reginald    Rellerick's    body 


Ddjazet  125 

seemed  to  stretch  tensely,  as  though  an  electric 
current  had  been  sent  through  it.  Then  came  the 
relaxation,  and  he  sat  there  drooping  and  limp. 
This  man — this  Pinerville — knew  of  the  ignominy 
to  which  he  had  been  subjected.  He  was  there  to 
scoff  at  him,  and  to  add  to  his  humiliation.  Yet 
Reginald  could  not  look  him  in  the  face,  'with  his 
Dejazet  eyes  and  his  Dejazet  expression.  He  felt 
as  though  he  were  being  hunted  down,  and  cor- 
nered. The  men  around  were  still  silently  attent- 
ive to  their  brandy-and-sodas.  The  only  voice  in 
the  room  was  that  of  Pinerville,  who  was  there  to 
subject  him  to  the  anguish  of  the  earlier  evening. 
He  would  not  submit  to  such  cruelty.  His  anger 
swept  everything  before  it. 

"  This  is  an  insult,  Mr.  Pinerville,"  he  said, 
thickly ;  "  one  which  I  will  not  tolerate.  How 
dare  you  sit  there  and  suggest  to  me — to  Reginald 
Rellerick — for  I  am  Reginald  Rellerick — such  a 
scheme  ?  Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  could  imper- 
sonate a  vulgar  criminal  ?  I  ask  you  that.  Do  I 
look  like  it,  Mr.  Pinerville?  I  insist  upon  an 
answer." 

The  little  dramatist  seemed  to  be  lost  in  abso- 
lute amaze.  The  violence  of  the  great  actor's 
words  overpowered  him.  He  blushed  ;  he  paled  ; 
he  looked  around  in  astonished  distress.  Then  he 
glanced  at  Rellerick  to  see  if  he  had  heard  aright. 
Possibly  the  champagne  had  affected  him.  The 
actor  was  but  slightly  addicted  to  wine. 

"  You  are  not  in  earnest,  Mr.  Rellerick,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  Why,  I  do  not  understand  you.  Of 


126  His  Own  Image 

course — of  course — you  do  not  look,  in  your  private 
life,  like  a  man  who  could  play  a  criminal.  But — 
but — you  are  not  well ;  you  cannot  be  yourself. 
Look  at  Irving.  Why,  his  best  successes  have 
been  in  such  plays  as  '  The  Bells  '  and  '  The 
Lyons  Mail.'  With  this  story  of  Dejazet  I  can 
make  a  play  quite  as  powerful  as  either  of  those 
dramas.  The  history  is  a  perfect  one.  All  Lon- 
don will  flock  to  see  you  as  the  famous  Dejazet, 
with  Felicia  Halstead  as  Genevieve  Delaunay." 

"Stop!"  cried  Reginald,  glowing  with  rage, 
sweeping  his  arm  across  the  table  that  held  the 
champagne  glasses,  and  dashing  them  to  the  ground. 
"  I  will  not  listen  to  you.  You  came  here  to-night 
to  tell  me  this  horrible  plan  of  yours.  You  shall 
not  succeed.  I  will  not  sit  and  listen  to  you.  You 
couldn't  write  this  play.  I  say  you  couldn't.  Your 
last  was  a  hopeless  failure.  You  will  never  write 
another  play.  You  are  cheap  and  vulgar,  and  you 
appeal  to  the  gallery.  Send  your  horrid  drama  to 
the  provinces.  Keep  it  away  from  London  and 
from  me." 

His  voice  was  loud  and  excited.  The  gloomy 
creatures  in  the  club  arose,  and  joined  the  two  at 
the  table,  kicking  aside  the  fragments  of  the  cham- 
pagne glasses,  and  alive  for  once,  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  something  real  was  happening. 

"  This  is  an  affront,  Mr.  Rellerick,"  remarked  the 
little  dramatist,  emerging  from  his  overpowering 
astonishment,  "  an  affront  for  which  you  shall  pay 
dearly.  Gentlemen,"  turning  to  the  parchment 
faces  of  his  associates,  "  I  was  merely  suggesting 


Dejazet  127 

the  scheme  of  a  new  play  to  this  actor — suggesting 
it  in  all  humility,  and  in  the  legitimate  pursuit  of 
my  profession — when  he  turned  upon  me  in  this 
unseemly  manner." 

Quick  as  lightning,  through  Reginald's  mind  were 
flashed  the  prospects  of  publicity.  *  Sanely  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  these  men  would  hear  of  his 
aversion  to  the  hated  name  of  Dejazet,  and  would 
laugh  at  it.  The  journalists  present  would  para- 
graph it,  and  perhaps  even  weave  it  into  some  sort  of 
penny-dreadful,  psychological  story.  He  had 
aroused  Pinerville's  ire,  and  the  thing  to  do  was  to 
allay  it  before  further  damage  was  done. 

"  I  was  quite  In  the  wrong,  Mr.  Pinerville,"  he 
said,  spectacularly  humble,  "  and  before  these 
gentlemen  I  apologize.  Mr.  Pinerville," — turning 
to  the  members — "  was  telling  me  his  idea  for  a 
new  play.  I  had  heard  the  story,  and  it  had  im- 
pressed me  so  vividly,  that  I  could  not  quite  recon- 
cile to  myself  the  idea  of  its  dramatization.  That 
is  all.  Mr.  Pinerville,  I  quite  agree  with  you  that 
it  would  make  a  good  drama — one  that  I  should 
like  to  produce.  Promise  me  that  you  will  not 
mention  the  story  to  anybody — I  must  insist  upon 
that,  for  it  would  be  instantly. seized  upon  and  used 
— and  I  will  discuss  it  with  you  later,  with  a  view 
to  next  season.  You  forgive  my  little  incompre- 
hensible—  "  (he  paused  and  looked  at  the  faces  be- 
fore him.  Was  it  incomprehensible  ?) — "  outburst. 
I  can  say  no  more." 

The  little  dramatist — the  most  peaceful  and  in- 
offensive of  men — held  out  his  hand.  The  great 


128  His  Own  Image 

actor  took  it,  and  wrung  it  fervently.  He  was 
saved — temporarily  saved,  and  he  would  avoid  the 
club  henceforth,  and  deny  himself  persistently  to 
Pinerville.  He  would  never  see  that  dramatist 
again,  if  he  could  help  it. 

The  club-members,  robbed  of  their  tit-bit,  went 
back  to  their  seats,  like  dogs  that  had  looked  upon 
a  bone  which  had  mysteriously  been  torn  away 
from  their  teeth.  Reginald  Rellerick  forced  him- 
self to  talk  indifferently  upon  the  topics  of  the  day, 
until  he  saw  that  Pinerville  had  left.  Then  he  fol- 
lowed, and  jumping  into  a  cab,  was  driven  home. 

He  was  admitted  to  his  own  apartments  by  his 
comedy-butler.  Apparently  the  domestics  were 
giving  a  party  downstairs.  He  heard  them  laughing, 
and  talking,  and  the  mellow  tones  of  his  cook's 
voice  were  wafted  up  to  him.  The  sounds  grated 
upon  his  ear,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  went  up- 
stairs to  his  study.  Crampton  was  there  arranging 
his  scrap-books,  mouldier  than  usual.  He  nodded 
to  his  secretary,  threw  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat, 
and  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  fire- 
place. The  secretary  continued  to  paste  the  news- 
paper clippings  into  the  book.  The  room  was 
horribly  silent,  except  for  the  distant  sounds  of  the 
servants'  laughter  below  stairs.  Why  was  Cramp- 
ton  such  a  mummy?  Why  had  he  engaged  a 
secretary  who  had  no  more  animation  than  an 
oyster  ? 

Thomas,  the  comedy-butler,  brought  in  a  tray 
bearing  soda-water  and  spirits.  As  he  opened  the 
door,  the  exuberancy  downstairs  came  flowing  into 


Dejazet  129 

the  room.  It  was  irritating  to  the  great  actor,  and 
he  turned  pettishly  to  the  butler. 

"  Send  the  servants  to  bed,"  he  said,  "  and  tell 
them  that  I  won't  have  this  noise.  It  is  most  dis- 
respectful. What  are  they  laughing  at,  Thomas  ?" 

The  staid  butler  paused  at  the  door,  and  straight- 
ened his  upper  lip  into  the  usual  semblance  of  dis- 
creet solemnity. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  sir,"  he  replied,  reverently. 
"  Cook  and  Jane  went  out  to-night  and  were  at 
Madame  Tussore's  Wax-works.  They  say  they  saw 
there  a  new  figure  that  looked  so  much  like  you 
that  cook  declares  she  almost  dropped,  and  Jane 
says  she  went  all  of  a  tremble.  They're  silly  things, 
but  they're  laughing  so  much  about  it  now,  that  they 
don't  feel  like  going  to  bed.  The  figure — " 

Reginald  jumped  from  his  chair  and  pointed  his 
quivering  hand  at  the  butler. 

"  Send  them  to  bed  at  once,  and  tell  them  to 
behave  themselves.  If  they  can  find  nothing  bet- 
ter to  do  than  discuss  such  nonsense,  they  had 
better  go  elsewhere  and  find  work." 

The  door  closed  behind  the  butler,  and  Reginald 
sank  into  his  chair  again.  The  mouldy  secretary, 
pasting  the  slips  into  the  scrapbook,  might  have 
been  deaf  and  dumb,  so  completely  was  he  absorbed 
in  his  work.  Reginald  lay  there  in  a  tumult.  His 
cook  and  his  Jane  had  been  merry  at  his  expense. 
They  had  seen  the  loathsome  image,  standing  to 
be  gazed  at  for  a  few  coins.  Perhaps  they  had 
been  in  the  building  at  the  very  time  that  he  was 
there — menials  and  master,  staring  at  the  waxen 


I3o  His  Own  Image 

counterpart  of  a  notorious  criminal.  It  was  intol- 
erable. He  could  not  endure  that  these  servants 
should  remain  in  his  employ.  He  could  not  meet 
them,  day  after  day,  in  the  knowledge  that  they 
had  been  impressed  by  the  fact  that  he  was  dupli- 
cated in  the  Marylebone  Road,  by  a  lifeless  form, 
labelled  "  Murderer." 

"  Discharge  the  servants  to-morrow,  Crampton," 
he  said,  huskily.  "  I  must  have  a  quieter  set. 
My  home  is  a  pandemonium." 

Crampton  nodded  in  his  usual  apathetic  manner. 
If  Rellerick  had  told  him  to  ask  the  Queen  to 
abdicate  her  throne,  he  would  have  nodded  in  the 
same  remotely  human  way. 

The  silence  was  almost  tangible.  If  only  Cramp- 
ton  would  talk,  and  break  this  intolerable  spell ! 
But  the  secretary  plodded  on  with  his  task,  and  the 
great  actor  stifled  by  the  side  of  the  redly  burning 
fire. 

"  Crampton,"  he  said  at  last — he  could  endure  it 
no  longer.  "You  heard  what  Thomas  said  just 
now." 

"Yes,  sir." 

'  Well,  I  am  told  that  at  this  wax-work  exhibi- 
bition  there  is  a  figure  that  resembles  me  very 
strongly.  It  is  meant  to  portray  a  criminal  who 
was  executed  a  few  days  ago  in  Paris.  I  never 
read  the  papers,  Crampton.  Do  you  remember 
the  name  of  the  criminal  ?" 

He  could  see  it  luminously  around  him.  Every 
letter  in  its  composition  was  seared  into  his  brain 
Yet  he  wanted  to  hear  Crampton  pronounce  the 


D^jazet  131 

word,  as  he  was  anxious  to  know  if  it  were  possible 
that  his  well-newspapered  secretary  could  possibly 
have  avoided  hearing  it. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Crampton  deliberately,  "that 
you  mean  Dejazet." 

"  Yes— yes— that  is  it.     D6jazet." 

There  it  was  again,  ringing  in  his  ears,  this  time 
uttered  by  the  slow-voiced,  monotonous  Crampton. 
How  dismal  it  sounded !  What  a  hideous  name  it 
was! 

"  Dejazet,"  sang  Crampton,  in  chant-like  sylla- 
bles, "  was  the  person  who  murdered  his  mistress. 
It  was  a  sensational  case,  but  I  did  not  tell  you  of 
it,  because  there  were  other  more  important  mat- 
ters to  discuss.  The  story  might  make  a  good  play, 
Mr.  Rellerick.  You  could  get  a  clever  dramatist 
to  put  a  few  theatre  touches  to  D6jazet  himself, 
and  to  that  p*oor  little  girl,  Genevieve  Delaunay." 

"That  poor  little  girl!" 

The  words  seemed  to  smite  Reginald  Rellerick. 
Where  had  he  heard  them  before,  recently  uttered  ? 
He  cudgelled  his  brains  to  investigate  this  stupid 
trifle  of  a  coincidence.  "  That  poor  little,  girl !" 
Why,  it  was  Crampton  himself  who  had  used  the 
words,  that  very  morning,  in  discussing  Felicia  Hal- 
stead.  He  recalled  them  very  well.  "  That  poor 
little  girl,  that  penniless  child."  That  had  been 
Crampton's  own  phrase,  when  Reginald  had  told 
him  that  he  intended  to  marry  Felicia  Halstead. 
He  laughed  aloud.  This  new  idea  of  making  moun- 
tain out  of  molehills  w°s  genuinely  entertaining. 
Poor  Crampton's  vocabulary  was  very  limited.  It 


i32  His  Own  Image 

was  bounded  on  the  north  and  the  south  by  "  That 
poor  little  girl." 

"  Talking  of  poor  little  girls,  Crampton,"  he  said 
harshly,  as  though  some  of  his  inner  strings  had 
broken,  "  and  you  like  to  talk  about  them,  Cramp- 
ton,  don't  you  ? — I  must  tell  you  that  Miss  Hal- 
stead  has  accepted  me,  arid  that  as  soon  as  she  re- 
turns from  Lancashire,  we  are  to  be  married.  '  For 
we're  to  be  married  to-day,  to-day — for  we're  to  be 
married  to-day,'"  he  sang  stridently. 

The  secretary  looked  at  him,  a  trifle  paler  than 
usual — more  like  bleached  parchment  than  any  thing 
else.  His  fingers  trembled  with  the  wet  slip  of 
paper  that  they  held,  ready  for  transference  to  the 
scrap-book.  He  looked  at  Reginald  with  the  eyes 
of  a  dumb  animal.  He  knew  him  so  well !  He 
was  so  completely  initiated  into  the  mysteries  of 
that  complicated  ego-maniacal  mind.  But  he  could 
not  speak.  He  pasted  the  moist  clipping  in  the 
book,  shut  it  up,  and  after  carefully  putting  away 
the  details  of  his  work,  left  the  great  actor  alone 
for  the  night. 

Yes,  he  was .  alone  for  the  night,  in  his  redly  cur- 
tained room,  with  its  unread  books,  and  its  loung- 
ing chairs.  He  lay  there,  still  looking  at  the  fire, 
and  finding  no  comfort  in  his  surroundings.  He 
was  alone  for  the  night,  shut  off  from  the  dimly 
lighted  streets,  and  removed  from  the  reach  of  man 
or  woman.  He  was  there — and  his  double  ?  His 
awful  counterpart  was  alone  for  the  night  in  the 
wax-work  exhibition  of  the  Marylebone  Road,  sur- 
rounded by  other  waxen  terrors,  murderers,  poison- 


Dejazet  133 

ers  and  outcasts.  He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of 
it.  He  could  see  the  black,  impenetrable  Chamber 
of  Horrors,  robbed  of  all  its  illumination,  free  from 
the  noise  of  the  gaping,  sight-seeing  crowd.  They 
stood  there — those  monsters — just  as  silent  and  just 
as  ghastly  as  they  had  been  when  he  had  viewed 
them.  They  would  never  stir,  nor  move,  nor  utter 
sound,  and  yet  the  detestable  tragedy  would  begin 
again  on  the  morrow. 

The  big  blue  bed  was  yawning  for  him,  but  he 
could  not  seek  it,  with  the  knowledge  that  the 
atrocity  which  had  been  perpetrated  in  his  image, 
was  standing  up  there  alone,  in  the  dark  of  the 
wax-work  collection.  Perhaps  it  was  grinning  with 
no  eyes  other  than  those  glass  imitations  to  look 
upon  it.  Perhaps  the  defiance  of  its  attitude  had 
changed  to  one  of  pleading  and  of  pity.  At  any 
rate  it  was  there.  It  must  be  there.  It  was  an 
awful  thought.  He  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  stay- 
ing alone  in  his  own  room  all  night,  with  the  re- 
membrance of  this  silent  monument,  linking  itself 
with  him  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  It  haunted 
him.  He  looked  at  himself  in  the  glass,  and  his 
face  was  yellow  and  bloodless  ;  his  attitude  seemed 
unreal  and  moulded,  and  his  hands — always  those 
hands — were  as  smooth  and  as  nailless  as  those  of 
of  any  of  the  kings  and  queens  and  wretches  he 
had  gazed  upon. 

The  silence  of  his  room  could  scarcely  be  greater 
than  that  in  the  scarlet  edifice  devoted  to  the 
monuments.  He  looked  around  him  fearfully,  half 


134  His  Own  Image 

expecting  to  see  a  galaxy  of  poisoners  and  decoyers 
rearing  itself  about  him. 

He  went  into  the  hall,  and  opened  the  door  of 
Crampton's  room.  The  mouldy  secretary  was 
asleep,  but  his  breast  rose  and  fell,  and  he  breathed. 
It  was  such  a  relief  to  see  those  signs  of  life.  As  he 
gazed  at  the  sleeping  man,  Crampton's  lips  moved, 
and  he  distinctly  heard  the  word  "  Felicia  "  emerge 
therefrom.  And  as  he  continued  to  watch — 
startled  into  a  momentary  sensation  of  genuine, 
eavesdropping  curiosity — the  secretary's  lips  bub- 
bled again,  and  this  time  the  word  "  D6jazet  " 
issued  forth. 

He  left  the  room  hurriedly.  Everything  was 
conspiring  against  him.  There  was  a  plot — a 
coldly-laid  plot — to  affect  his  mental  health  by 
these  uncanny  coincidences.  He  went  downstairs, 
put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  let  himself  quietly 
into  the  streets.  He  walked  quickly  and  unthink- 
ingly along,  as  though  impelled  by  some  hidden 
mechanism.  The  policemen  on  their  beat  looked 
at  him  curiously.  The  night-owls  slunk  away  at 
his  approach.  The  roysterers  called  ribaldly  after 
him,  but  on  he  went — on — on — on. 

He  never  paused,  until,  miles  away  from  his  start- 
ing point,  he  had  reached  that  hectic  building  in  the 
Marylebone  Road,  where  his  double  stood  up,  king 
among  the  evil-doers ;  newest  of  all  the  detestabili- 
ties  ;  latest  addition  to  the  criminals  of  the  century. 
The  poster  was  still  there,  flaunting  its  blueness 
unseen.  Even  in  the  badly  lighted  street  he  could 


Dejazet  135 

still  read  the  words,  "  The  face  was  modelled  from 
a  cast  taken  after  death." 

How  gloomy  it  all  looked,  without  its  sight-seers 
and  its  inane,  laughing  mob.  This  was  the  place 
where  they  amused  themselves  in  the  day-time. 
This  was  a  sort  of  vile  hereafter  for  all  who  dis- 
tinguished themselves  from  their  fellow-men,  either 
by  good  or  by  evil — it  didn't  matter  which.  Fa- 
mous and  infamous  were  both  stationed  here,  sepa- 
rated by  nothing  more  than  a  compartment. 

He  would  not  go  home.  He  would  remain  as 
near  to  his  double  as  possible.  He  wondered  if 
Dejazet  were  at  the  window,  looking  out  and  grin- 
ning at  him,  as  he  stood  there  nervelessly,  outside 
the  cage,  pacing  backwards  and  forwards.  If  some 
of  those  laughing  sight-seers  should  pass  by,  they 
would  think  that  the  new  waxen  figure  had  escaped 
from  its  prison,  and  was  haunting  the  Marylebone 
Road.  It  was  a  fantastic  idea,  but  it  was  not  a 
pleasant  one.  A  night  watchman  stared  at  him 
seriously.  He  averted  his  face  and  moved  away. 
A  policeman  stood  by  him  and  looked  at  him  sus- 
piciously. He  asked  the  peace-guardian  what  time 
it  was,  more  for  the  sake  of  hearing  his  own  voice 
than  to  secure  the  information. 

At  day-break  the  edifice  looked  lighter,  and  more 
cheerful.  In  a  few  hours  the  doors  would  be 
opened  once  more,  and  if  he  chose,  he  could  look 
at  D6jazet  again  for  one-and-sixpence.  In  a  few 
hours  !  He  could  wait. 


Chapter  IX 

FELICIA  WRITES 

"  LIVERPOOL,  May  j,  1898. 
"  MY  DEAR  REGINALD  :  Doesn't  it  seem  odd  to 
reflect  that  I  have  never  yet  written  you  a  letter  ? 
You  can  ransack  your  desks  ;  you  can  ask  your 
dreadful,  seedy  Crampton  to  rummage  through 
your  correspondence  ;  no  letter  from  your  Felicia 
has  a  place  there.  Consequently,  my  dear,  dear 
Reginald,  I  am  going  to  try  to  do  justice  to  myself 
to-day.  Oh,  the  joy  of  writing  to  you  !  You  don't 
know  what  it  means  to  me.  All  morning  I  have 
been  nervous  and  excited  at  the  mere  idea  of 
addressing  you  by  pen  and  ink.  And  now  that  I 
have  started — well,  I  have  a  trembling  hand  and  a 
palpitating  heart.  I  don't  intend  to  write  to  you 
often,  my  dear,  because  I  have  a  sort  of  horror  of 
establishing  a  volume  for  'Letters  from  Felicia.' 
Such  a  title  always  sounds  to  me  so  cheap  and 
penny-dreadful-y,  and  I  hate  women  who  write 
diaries  and  letters — yes,  even  Glory  Quayle  and 
Marie  Bashkirtseff.  These  words  are  destined — 
not  for  publication — but  for  the  waste-paper  basket. 
However,  I  don't  insist  upon  the  basket.  If  you 
should  happen  to  be  in  a  Felicia  mood  when  you 
[136] 


Felicia  Writes  137 

get  this — well,  you  can  put  it  next  to  your  heart ; 
I  shan't  mind,  and  you  needn't  confess,  Reginald  ; 
you  really  needn't. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  got  to  Liverpool,  because 
I  don't  know.  I  believe  I  sat  on  cushions  and  was 
propelled  swiftly  through  sweet,  warm  air,  but  I  am 
not  quite  sure.  You  see,  I  couldn't  worry  myself 
about  such  details.  In  my  mind  were  words  that 
had  been  spoken  at  Euston  Station  by  a  certain 
stern  and  merciless  knight,  and  they  sang  them- 
selves to  me  until  I  was  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  reverie. 
Dear  old  Euston  Station !  Little  did  I  think  that 
my  happiness  would  come  to  me  in  that  vaulted, 
noisy,  going-away  place.  How  often  have  I  cried 
there,  and  despaired  there,  and  rebelled  there  ! 
Euston  was  to  me  a  sort  of  devils'  rendezvous. 
And  now,  you  original,  reckless  boy,  you  have  sud- 
denly transformed  it  into  an  Elysium. 

"  The  bicyclist-boys  in  the  train  with  me  were 
very  polite.  They  insisted  upon  pulling  down  the 
window  when  it  was  warm,  and  putting  it  up  again 
when  it  grew  cool.  They  gave  me  funny  papers 
to  read,  and  plied  me  with  chicken  sandwiches. 
They  were  very  young,  and  talked  bicycle  to  me  by 
the  hour.  They  introduced  me  to  sprocket-wheels, 
and  gear-cases,  and  it  is  absolutely  my  own  fault 
that  I  don't  know  how  to  darn  a  tire,  under  any 
condition  of  puncture.  Reginald,  these  youthful 
bicyclists  recognized  me.  They  had  with  them  a 
magazine  containing  my  picture.  Such  is  fame — 
which  I  never  have  wanted,  don't  want,  and  shan't 
want !  I  told  you  the  truth,  dear  boy,  when  I  said 


138  His  Own  Image 

that  I  hated  the  theatre  and  everything  connected 
with  it — except  one  '  star  '  actor,  in  whose  halo  I 
I  long  to  participate,  for  his  sake  only.  I  can't 
understand  the  joys  that  fame  is  supposed  to  yield. 
Certainly  it  can't  make  one  happy  to  be  thought  of 
and  noticed  by  a  lot  of  strangers.  If  fame  could 
render  one  more  entrancing  to  one's  own  selected 
circle — then  I  should  like  to  be  famous.  But  does 
it  ?  I  think  not.  Fame  is  a  bait  for  the  outsiders, 
for  the  Toms,  and  the  Dicks,  and  the  Harrys,  and  I 
don't  want  it.  (I  have  just  read  this  over,  and  it 
sounds  rather  nice — really  book-y,  and  breezy. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?) 

"  Floss  and  Edna  met  me  at  Lime  Street,  and 
took  me  home  to  mamma,  as  though  I  were  the 
prodigal  returned.  What  a  fuss  they  made  of  me, 
these  three  good,  and  unreasonably  affectionate 
women.  Somehow  or  other,  Reginald,  I  felt  that 
I  was  a  sort  of  blot  upon  the  purity  of  their  picture 
— a  fraud,  as  it  were.  It  was  not  until  I  told  them 
that  I  was  engaged,  that  I  could  feel  at  my  ease. 
You  should  have  heard  their  exclamations  of  pleas- 
ure and  their  questions.  They  had  been  longing 
for  such  news,  and  mamma — dear,  innocent  mam- 
ma— said,  '  Well,  my  dear  Felicia,  I  am  glad  it  has 
ended  so  nicely.  I  have  heard  of  young  actresses 
who  fall  in  love  with  actors,  and  who  are  lured  to 
their  ruin.'  Dear  mamma  !  I  love  that  expression, 
'  lured  to  their  ruin.'  It  is  so  picturesque,  and  so 
exquisitely  middle-class.  How  middle-ciass  we 
are  !  Really,  I  never  knew  it  so  vividly  as  I  know 
it  now.  Floss  and  Edna  are  typical  middle-class 


Felicia  Writes  139 

girls,  addicted  to  doting  upon  beardless  curates 
and  afternoon  tea,  and  mamma  is  one  of  those 
easily  satisfied  matrons  to  whom  watercress  and 
shrimps — to  say  nothing  of  periwinkles — are  the 
acme  of  joy.  The  metropolis  has  had  its  effect 
upon  me,  though  I  thought  I  was  still  narrow  and 
provincial.  These  dear,  beloved  people — flesh  of 
my  flesh — run  so  persistently  in  one  groove.  They 
all  discuss  the  fact  that  I  am  going  '  to  marry  well,' 
— just  as  though  you  were  a  butcher  with  a  big  bank 
account.  I  am  quite  sure  that  mamma  thinks  we 
shall  live  in  a  brick  terrace  in  the  suburbs,  and  keep 
chickens  and  rabbits.  She  has  warned  me  that 
actors  are  very  fond  of  divorces — in  fact,  mamma 
believes  that  it  is  an  incentive  to  them  to  marry — 
and  I  am  to  be  very  careful  and  prudent. 

"  Reginald,  I  hate  myself  for  writing  so  lightly  of 
my  family.  It  seems  so  graceless,  and  so  unlike 
the  Felicia  of  other  days.  Alas  !  I  am  afraid  that 
the  Felicia  of  other  days  is  no  more.  In  her  place 
has  arisen  a  new,  pert,  and  frivolous  creature  with 
but  one  object  in  her  life,  and  one  desire  to  get 
away  from  everything  that  is  not  connected  with 
that  object.  Floss  wanted  to  know  why  I  hadn't 
an  engagement  ring,  and  when  I  told  her  that  there 
was  no  jeweller's  shop  in  Euston  Station,  she  nearly 
fainted.  Floss  and  Edna  think  that  a  proposal  in 
Euston  Station  is  most  ignominious.  Edna  won- 
dered what  on  earth  the  people  thought  of  you 
when  they  saw  you  on  your  knees  on  the  platform, 
begging  the  radiant  Felicia  to  be  yours  for  ever  and 
for  aye.  They  are  very  ingenuous  girls,  Reginald, 


140  His  Own  Image 

Was  I  ingenuous  when  you  first  knew  me  ?  You 
used  to  tell  me  that  I  was,  but  seriously  I  can  hardly 
believe  it.  I  feel  so  abnormally  wise,  and  sensible, 
and  worldly — in  this  unpoetic,  yet  secluded  Liver- 
pool. 

"  At  an  afternoon  tea,  yesterday,  I  met  a  spinster 
with  ringlets,  who  told  me  that  she  had  seen  you 
in  London  some  years  ago,  and  thought  that  you 
looked  like  a  dreadful  person,  capable  of  anything. 
You  were  playing  in  '  Richard  III,'  and  she  was 
quite  unable  to  disentangle  you  from  your  part. 
She  asked  me  if  something  couldn't  be  done  for  the 
hump,  and  when  I  told  her  that  you  were  trying  to 
remove  it  with  caustic — like  a  wart — she  seemed  to 
be  quite  pleased.  I  should  hate  you  to  come  to 
Liverpool,  and  see  the  people  whom  I  meet  daily. 
They  would  be  so  exactly  the  folks  that  you  would 
despise — you  lordly,  regal  and  peerless  thing  !  So, 
if  you  should  feel  that  you  can't  possibly  exist  a 
day  longer  without  your  Felicia — well,  my  dear,  bid 
her  come  to  you,  but  prithee,  go  not  to  her. 

"  How  my  pen  is  flying  on,  and  what  nonsense  I 
am  writing.  Verily,  I  believe  that  even  the  waste- 
paper  basket  would  reject  me.  However,  I  am 
not  always  as  light-hearted  as  I  feel  at  this  mo- 
ment. Sometimes  I  ask  myself  if  really,  in  your 
heart  of  hearts,  you  love  this  foolish,  flighty  Fe- 
licia ?  And  the  answer  is  not  satisfactory.  If  it 
were,  it  would  be  too  good — too  consummately  bliss- 
ful. I  don't  believe  that  you  would  die  of  anguish 
if  she  positively  declined  to  see  you  again  I  can- 
not imagine  you  suiciding  on  account  of  hopeless 


Felicia  "Writes  141 

love  for  Felicia  Halstead.  If  I  were  only  proud, 
and  correct !  If  I  only  were  !  I  would  force  you 
to  woo  me  violently,  and  would  revel  in  coyness, 
and  woman's  pretty  defensiveness.  But  alas  !  I 
am  so  desperate,  and  so  very  much  in  earnest.  I 
have  no  pride,  and  I  am  not  coy.  I  would  marry 
you,  even  if  you  hated  me,  and  trust  to  fate  for 
better  things  afterwards.  In  fact,  Reginald,  I  was 
quite  willing  to  be  your  wife,  even  when  I  thought 
that  you  might  ask  me  just  for  the  sake  of — but 
no,  I  will  not  tell  you  of  that  contemplated  con- 
spiracy until  we  have  been  married  five  years. 
Married  five  years !  I  can  scarcely  realize  what  it 
means.  Perhaps  by  that  time  I  shall  have  grown 
to  think  of  nothing  but  boiled  mutton,  and  roly- 
poly  puddings.  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  artistic — 
merely  feminine. 

"  You  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you  that  I  almost 
expected  to  find  a  telegram  from  you  awaiting 
me  in  Liverpool,  begging  me  to  dismiss  the  Euston 
interview  from  my  mind.  My  first  words  when  1 
entered  the  sitting-room  were :  '  Is  there  any 
message  for  me  ?'  What  a  relief  it  was  when  1 
heard  that  there  was  not.  You  see,  I  am  uncer- 
tain and  unsettled.  But  nothing  can  alter  the  fact 
that  you  have  asked  me  to  be  your  wife,  and  that  I 
have  accepted.  It  was,  as  mamma  says,  a  happy 
ending.  There  are  episodes  in  our  past  that  we 
may  think  of  in  mental  solitude.  How  much  bet- 
ter that  there  should  be  no  more  of  them.  Yet,  I 
would  have  been  your  slave — your  willing  satellite 
forever — if  I  could  not  have  been  your  wife.  Never, 


142  His  Own  Image 

to  my  dying  day,  shall  I  forget  my  agony  when  you 
accused  me  of  trying  to  supplant  you — never, 
never,  never.  And  yet,  in  some  way  or  other,  I 
can't  help  thinking  that  this  incident  is  connected 
with  my  present  happiness.  How  wretched  I  was 
when  you  saw  me  at  Euston  !  Positively,  Reginald, 
I  had  even  neglected  to  dye  my  hair.  I  was  going 
to  forsake  my  colours,  not  caring  whether  I  was 
blonde  or  brunette.  Poor  old  Landy  was  in  des- 
pair, but  I  could  not  do  otherwise. 

"  By-the-by,  Reginald,  mamma,  who  is  a  most 
voracious  newspaper  reader,  and  frightfully  ad- 
dicted to  horrors,  which  are  to  her  as  the  salt  of  the 
earth,has  been  telling  me  about  a  wonderful  case  that 
occurred  recently  in  Paris.  It  concerned  a  person 
called  De"jazet,  who  murdered  a  girl  named  Gene- 
vieve Delaunay,  rather  than  marry  her.  Mamrna 
gave  me  all  the  details  in  a  very  vivid  manner,  and 
I  couldn't  help  thinking,  after  I  had  heard  them, 
what  a  very  admirable  play  it  would  make.  I  could 
almost  see  you  as  Dejazet — made  up  with  a  po- 
maded, spiky  moustache,  and  I  am  sure  that  it 
would  be  a  magnificent  r61e  for  you.  And  then, 
my  dear,  I  think  I  could  be  Genevieve  to  perfec- 
tion— just  my  style.  She  must  have  been  just  such 
another  un-coy,  un-proud  thing  as  I  am.  It  served 
her  almost  right  for  insisting  upon  marrying  the 
poor  fellow  when  she  knew  that  he  hated  her. 
I  am  afraid  that  I  should  do  precisely  the  same 
thing,  my  poor,  entangled  Reginald.  Conse- 
quently, who  could  be  a  better  Genevieve  De- 
launay than  Felicia  Halstead  ? 


Felicia  Writes  143 

"  I  read  in  a  local  paper  that  they  have  just  added 
a  picture  of  De"jazet  to  the  wax-work  collection  at 
Madame  Tussaud's,  and  that  the  face  is  modelled 
from  a  cast  made  after  death.  So,  my  dear,  if  you 
should  ever  play  Dejazet,  you  won't  have  to  worry 
yourself  with  the  British  Museum,  where  you  al- 
ways go  for  inspiration,  but  you  can  have  a  cheap 
shilling's-worth  of  Madame  Tussaud.  Wait  until  I 
come  back  and  we  will  go  together.  I  adore  the 
wax-works.  Landy  and  I  have  spent  hours  there. 
In  fact,  my  idea  of  happiness  is  a  morning  at  Mad- 
ame Tussaud's,  with  a  nice  catalogue  and  sixpenny- 
worth  of  chocolate  creams  in  a  bag.  My  grave 
and  artistic  lord,  how  you  must  despise  me  for  this 
confession.  Yet  I  make  it,  because  I  am  so  anxious 
to  confess  everything — or  nearly  everything — to 
you.  Dear  old  Madame  Tussaud's !  I  am  always 
so  desperately  anxious  to  examine  the  petticoats 
and  lingerie  worn  by  all  the  queens  and  princesses, 
that  it  is  hard  work  for  me  to  conform  to  the  rules 
and  regulations  of  the  place. 

"  I  must  be  thinking  of  closing.  I  imagine  that 
the  only  lines  in  this  letter  that  you  will  really  care 
for  are  those  connected  with  D6jazet,  and  a  possi- 
ble play.  They  were  really  the  point  of  this  letter, 
and  I  felt  so  jealous  of  them  that  I  tried  to  get 
even  with  them  by  all  this  flimsy  Felicia  talk.  I 
wonder  if  mamma's  chatter  has  really  given  you 
an  idea.  I  know  that  you  never  read  the  papers. 
Perhaps  you  have  never  heard  of  Dejazet,  before 
you  receive  this.  I  had  not.  Landy  never  dis- 
cusses horrors,  and  never  tells  me  of  newspaper 


144  His  Own  Image 

topics.  Consequently,  if  I  am  responsible  for  any 
new  plans  that  you  may  make,  let  me  know.  I 
should  love  to  believe  that  I  was  really  useful  to  you 
at  last.  And  if  you  do  play  Dejazet,  remember  that 
I  must  be  the  Genevieve — even  if  I  never  play 
another  part,  and  retire  immediately  afterwards. 
I  could  feel  like  Genevieve  without  the  slightest 
difficulty  !  I  could  put  myself  in  her  place,  with- 
out the  faintest  effort.  And  you — you  clever, 
versatile  boy — you  could  put  yourself  with  equal 
ease  in  anybody's  place.  You  can  be  an  angel  as 
readily  as  a  devil. 

"  Forgive  me  all  this  frivolous  outburst.  I  have 
waited  until  I  could  wait  no  longer.  I  did  not 
expect  to  hear  from  you.  I  do  not  expect  to  do  so. 
I  tell  mamma  and  Floss  and  Edna  that  you  are  too 
busy  to  write.  Perhaps  you  are.  How  I  should 
appreciate  a  letter,  but — but — I  am  not  hinting  for 
one.  If  it  came,  I  should  not  return  it  unopened. 
But,  I  am  not  hinting  for  one,  Reginald  ;  oh  dear,  no. 

"tl  shall  return  to  London  at  the  end  of  my  third 
week,  and  then — and  then — well,  since  you  insist,  I 
will  be  yours.  Mamma  talks  such  a  lot  about  trou- 
seau  and  bridesmaids,  and  a  wedding-cake  with  sugar 
on  it,  and — all  the  usual  things  that  you  know  noth- 
ing about.  I  have  ventured  to  hint  that  we  may  be 
married  by  the  registrar,  and  that  my  wedding 
dress  will  probably  be  whatever  I  happen  to  be 
wearing  at  that  moment.  She  is  very  much  horri- 
fied. I  have  tried  to  break  it  gently  to  Floss  and 
Edna  that  there  will  be  no  bridesmaids.  Poor 
girls,  they  had  already  mapped  out  for  themselves 


Felicia  Writes  145 

blue  silk  dresses  with  white  tulle  veils.  Sometimes 
I  sigh,  and  just  for  one  moment — only  one — I  wish 
that  you  were  a  provincial  person,  who  went  every 
morning  to  business  at  nine  o'clock,  and  came  back 
to  tea  at  six ;  that  we  were  going  to  settle  down  to 
humdrum  life ;  and  that  you  would  like  a  supply 
of  doilies,  knitted  mats,  clocks  and  sugar-spoons  for 
wedding  presents.  For  one  moment  only  !  The 
next — and  I  see  you  superior  to  it  all — soaring 
above  the  provincialism  of  the  thing — my  own  regal, 
peerless,  and  irrevocable  Reginald.  Good-bye, 
dear.  One  word  from  you  to  the  effect  that  I  must 
not  stay  away  three  weeks,  and  back  I  come,  re- 
gardless of  etiquette,  of  reason,  of  mamma,  or  of 
Floss  and  Edna.  I  may  be  all  wrong,  but  then 
you  know  I  can't  help  being 

"FELICIA." 

"  What  will  be  the  fate  of  this  letter  ?  Somehow 
or  other,  I  can  picture  you  reading  it,  and  frowning 
upon  everything  but  that  little  business  matter 
concerning  Dej'azet.  I  can  see  the  sheets  left  on 
your  desk,  for  Crampton  to  file  away  in  the  H's. 
Shall  you  put  me  in  the  F's  or  the  H's  ?  Do  you 
think  of  me  as  Felicia  or  as  Halstead  ?  I  have  a 
dreadful  idea  that  Crampton  will  pigeon-hole  me 
in  the  H's.  O  Reginald,  save  me  from  this  fate. 
Tear  me  up,  and  scatter  my  bits  over  the  waste- 
paper  basket.  Burn  me,  but  don't  put  me  away 
with  demands  for  engagements,  offers  to  read  plays, 
and — other  professional  matter.  What  will  be  my 
fate? 

"  F.  H." 


146  His  Own  Image 

This  was  the  letter  that  Reginald  Rellerick  found 
waiting  for  him  after  another  mentally  exhausting 
evening  spent  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  The 
address  upon  the  envelope  gave  him  no  clue  to  the 
identity  of  the  writer.  He  had  never  before  seen 
a  specimen  of  Felicia's  handwriting.  Before  he 
read  it,  he  dried  his  humid  brow  and  drank  deeply 
of  the  ever-welcome  champagne-cup  prepared  for 
him  by  the  obeisant  Thomas.  What  an  evening 
he  had  passed  !  He  had  stood  for  two  hours  before 
the  image  of  Dejazet,  greedily  listening  to  the  com- 
ments of  the  throng.  Every  scathing  criticism  of 
the  murderer  stung  him  as  though  it  referred  to 
his  veritable  self.  He  felt  humiliated,  disgraced, 
prostrated.  He  found  himself  eagerly  awaiting 
some  extenuating  comment  from  some  extraordi- 
narily charitable  person.  He  scanned  the  features 
of  the  crowd  as  though  to  analyze  the  sentiments 
expressed  therein.  He  recalled  one  graphic  utter- 
ance that  had  been  balm  to  his  bleeding  soul.  It 
came  from  a  stout  labourer,  who  remarked  : 
"  Women  are  the  devil.  This  isn't  the  first  victim, 
and  it  won't  be  the  last."  It  had  been  difficult  for 
him  to  restrain  himself  from  shaking  the  hand  of 
that  humble  and  lenient  philosopher.  But  he 
could  not  forget  that  the  crowd  had  growled  at 
the  rude  philosophy,  and  had  even  hissed,  as  Lon- 
don crowds  consider  it  their  privilege  to  do.  The 
sympathies  of  the  herd  were  not  with  Dejazet — the 
evil,  yellow  thing  with  the  glassy  eyes  and  the  nail- 
less  hands,  that  stood  there  recklessly,  as  though 
wallowing  in  its  own  unholy  powers  of  attraction. 


Felicia  Writes  147 

Every  man  in  that  crowd  was  a  critic,  to  the 
wrought-up,  nerve-tightened  actor.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  listening  to  his  own  judgment ;  as 
if  his  future  life  depended  upon  the  whims  and 
caprices  of  this  gathering  of  'Arries  and  'Arriets. 

He  had  taken  the  precaution  to  don  a  soft  felt 
hat,  which  he  pressed  down  over  his  eyes,  so  that  his 
panoramic  expression,  and  that  odious  resemblance, 
might  both  be  kept  from  the  curious  men  and  wo- 
men at  the  exhibition.  He  skulked,  when  chance 
brought  him  into  closer  contact  with  the  visitors, 
and  once  when  a  confidential  countryman  spoke  to 
him,  he  moved  quickly  away,  without  attempting 
to  utter  a  word. 

And  now  he  had  returned  to  his  own  apartments. 
Crampton  was  out.  The  house  was  still.  He 
opened  the  letter  carelessly,  and  read  it  derisively. 
His  lips  curled  at  poor  Felicia's  exuberance  of 
expression,  and  he  laughed  aloud  at  the  words  that 
told  him  she  had  expected  a  telegram.  It  was  not 
until  he  reached  her  "  point  " — the  allusions  to  D6- 
jazet — that  he  was  aroused  to  any  sort  of  demon- 
stration. He  arose  from  his  seat,  and  pounded 
round  the  room,  speaking  aloud,  as  very  few  sane 
people  do — off  the  stage. 

"  She  would  like  to  see  me  play  De"jazet,"  he 
foamed.  "  She,  too!  She  can  '  almost  see  me  '  as 
De" jazet  '  made  up  with  a  pomaded,  spiky  mous- 
tache.' And  she  would  like  to  play  Genevieve  ! 
Devils!  They  are  all  conspiring  against  me  !  If  I 
am  not  crazy,  I  shall  be  soon.  What  have  I  done 
to  be  cursed  like  this  ?" 


148  His  Own  Image 

He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  woman 
who  had  lacerated  his  career.  Marry  her  he  would, 
and  then — and  then  he  could  retire  her  to  oblivion, 
and  seek  forgetfulness  of  this  morbid  horror  in  his 
stage  work.  Yet  how  loathsome  it  seemed  !  Al- 
ready she  began  to  speak  as  though  she  owned  him, 
body  and  soul — the  matrimonial  condition  at  which 
his  ego-maniacal  soul  rebelled.  Would  he  ever  be 
able  to  endure  her  exactions  ?  Could  he  ever 
calmly  resign  himself  to  those  insistently  expressed 
endearments,  which,  destitute  of  passion,  were  cold 
and  clumsy  in  his  ears.  What  a  detestable  fate  ! 
How  she  would  "  dear  "  him  and  "  darling  "  him  in 
public,  and  look  after  his  health,  and  see  that  he 
changed  his  stockings  if  his  feet  were  wet !  What 
a  prospect  !  He  was  paying  a  big  price  for  the 
adulation  that  the  public  offers.  His  ego-mania — 
he  called  it  fame — was  an  expensive  luxury,  to  be 
obtained  at  the  risk  of  all  personal  happiness. 

A  normal  man — even  a  normal  man  with  a  heart 
of  ice — would  have  been  touched  at  the  gentle  fem- 
ininity of  this  clinging  Felicia's  letter.  A  normal 
man  might  even  have  become  coxcombical,  as  he 
read  her  adoring  words.  But  this  ego-maniac  hated 
her  as  the  one  obstacle  in  his  glittering,  self-lauda- 
tory path.  If  he  could  only  have  married  her,  and 
shipped  her  next  day  to  Australia. 

Sitting  down  again,  he  tried  to  conjure  up  some 
plan  by  which  he  could  resume  his  career  without 
marrying  Felicia.  There  was  no  harm  in  thinking  up 
a  plan.  If  he  could  find  one,  the  telegram  that  she 
had  expected  should  be  hers  without  further  delay. 


Felicia  Writes  149 

But  there  was  no  way  out  of  the  tangle.  Felicia 
left  alone — resourceless  as  she  was,  with  a  family 
dependent  upon  her — must  earn  her  living.  All 
London  was  discussing  her  at  present.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  shadow  of  doubt  but  that  she  would 
succumb  to  managerial  persuasion.  Moreover,  she 
was  a  woman,  and  women  were  vindictive.  If  he 
withdrew  his  offer,  she  would  oppose  him  out  of 
sheer  revenge.  Even  the  gentle,  pliant,  lamb-like 
Felicia  had  a  woman's  foibles. 

No,  matters  had  been  arranged.  He  had  even 
blessed  the  arrangement,  and  thanked  his  lucky 
stars  at  its  success.  It  was  marriage,  or  the  down- 
ward path.  Marriage  it  should  be. 

Henceforth,  he  would  never  again  seek  for  any 
pretext  to  break  the  bonds. 

So  he  forced  himself  to  write  a  few  words  of  hy- 
pocritical affection  to  the  Lancashire  lass  of  his  re- 
luctant bosom.  No  need  to  chronicle  them.  There 
are  some  tasks  at  which  even  the  student  of  human- 
ity quails.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  lied  as  valiantly 
as  possible,  and  wrote  what  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  him  to  speak.  He  made  no  reference 
to  the  Dejazet  topic.  Fate  was  linking  him  with 
it.  He  would  let  fate  work  its  own  way  unaided. 

He  went  out  and  posted  the  letter  himself.  He 
felt  relieved  when  he  had  consigned  it  to  the  pillar. 
For  two  days  at  any  rate  he  could  forget  Felicia 
and  his  engagement. 

Once  more  he  felt  it  impossible  to  retire.  Cramp- 
ton  came  in,  mouldily  uninteresting,  sedate  as  usual. 


150  His  Own  Image 

Was  there  anything  he  could  do  for  Mr.  Rellerick 
before  going  to  bed  ?     No,  there  was  nothing. 

The  great  actor  waited  until  his  secretary  was 
quiet,  and  stole  noiselessly  out  of  the  house,  bound 
for  the  Marylebone  Road.  He  promised  himself 
that  this  should  be  the  last  time  he  indulged  in  such 
folly.  His  mind  must  be  recovering  its  tone,  for 
he  began  to  realize  the  ludicrous  side  of  this  noc- 
turnal promenade.  Imagine  a  man  in  his  sane 
senses,  gazing  at  a  closed  exhibition,  in  the  dead  of 
the  night,  more  especially  when  he  had  spent  the 
major  part  of  his  day  there.  Reginald  laughed  and 
felt  better.  He  would  end  this  farce  with  to-night. 
But  even  as  he  said  this  he  hurried  his  footsteps, 
and  arrived  panting  at  the  Marylebone  Road.  How 
could  he  sleep,  after  all,  with  the  knowledge  that 
his  own  image — the  image  which  all  London  had 
worshipped,  and  for  the  adulation  of  which  he  lived 
and  breathed — was  standing  alone,  in  the  dark,  in 
the  Tussaud  sarcophagus  ? 


Chapter  X 


THE  SIREN  OF  LEICESTER   SQUARE 

THE  rusty  Crampton  was  quiet,  but  the  rusty 
Crampton  was  not  asleep.  The  nerves  of  the  man, 
whom  you  may  have  regarded  as  an  automaton, 
were  on  the  alert.  Crampton  was  growing  suspi- 
cious. He  felt  that  some  strange  forces  were  at 
work  within  the  masterful  Reginald  Rellerick.  So 
far,  he  had  been  completely  able  to  understand  all 
the  motives  that  actuated  the  ego-maniac's  life. 
He  had  read  his  Nordau,  and  in  the  old  Oxford 
days  he  had  studied  the  psychological  authorities 
from  which  the  astutely  advertised  author  of  "  Par- 
adoxes "  derived  so  many  of  his  facts.  Rellerick 
was  quite  intelligible  to  him,  and  he  had  led  the 
self-dazzled  actor  into  many  harbours,  from  the 
depths  in  which  his  blindness  would  have  sunk  him. 
But  now,  something  else  was  at  work,  and  Cramp- 
ton  was  puzzled. 

He  lay  awake  in  his  bed  as  Reginald  prepared  to 
leave  the  house.  He  heard  the  creaking  of  the 
floors,  his  master's  step  in  the  hall,  the  opening  of 
the  door,  and  its  closing.  The  rusty  Crampton, 
with  an  amount  of  energy  quite  surprising  in  one 
so  sere  and  yellow,  leaped  from  his  couch,  and 


152  His  Own  Image 

hastily  trousering  himself,  resolved  to  follow  Mr. 
Rellerick.  Quick  thoughts  coursed  through  his 
brain.  At  another  time  he  might  have  analyzed 
them  ;  now  he  simply  thought  them,  without  won- 
dering. He  was  impelled  to  remember  that  hour 
in  the  cab  with  Felicia  Halstead,  when  he  had 
brought  her  from  Netting  Hill  to  his  master's  sanc- 
tum. She  had  sat  beside  him,  and  had  talked  in 
such  sweet  frivolity  that  his  mission  had  been  hate- 
ful to  him.  He  recalled  her  departure  from  Regi- 
nald's house,  bewildered  and  miserable,  and  follow- 
ing that,  like  a  flash  of  disaster-bringing  lightning, 
came  the  news  of  her  engagement  to  the  actor. 
He  thought  of  all  this  involuntarily,  without  at- 
tempting to  ask  himself  why  these  old  subjects 
came  to  him  at  midnight,  as  he  was  about  to  follow 
Reginald  Rellerick  on  some  unknown  adventure. 
Crampton  had  once  had  as  much  colour  as  you  and 
I  are  proud  to  own.  It  had  simply  worn  off. 
Colour  is  a  perishable  quality,  heightened  by  con- 
tact with  the  world,  destroyed  by  stagnation. 
Crampton  had  been  colourless  for  a  long  time,  but 
in  spite  of  that  fact,  he  is  the  only  irreproachable 
character  in  these  records,  and  I  insist  upon  your 
liking  him.  It  is  your  duty  to  like  him,  because  he 
was  a  good  man,  with  no  vices  worth  speaking  of, 
and  no  virtues  to  worry  about  lauding.  It  is  the 
absence  of  vice,  rather  than  the  presence  of  virtue, 
that  dishes  up  to  the  world  what  the  world  calls  a 
a  good  man.  .» 

Crampton  passed  into  Reginald's  sanctum.     The 
lamp  was  burning  low,  and  the  unoccupied  room 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     153 

still  reeked  of  the  intense  vitality  of  its  owner. 
Crampton  glanced  hastily  around.  Time  was  pre- 
cious. He  must  see  on  what  fool's  errand  the  ego- 
maniac had  started.  Under  the  desk  he  saw  a 
crumpled  letter.  The  sheets  had  evidently  been 
squeezed  together  by  a  vindictive  hand.  They 
were  twisted  into  most  uncomplimentary  contor- 
tions. Crampton  read  a  few  words  of  the  post- 
script :  "  What  will  be  the  fate  of  this  letter?  .  .  . 
I  can  see  the  sheets  left  on  your  desk  for  Crampton 
to  file  away  in  the  H's.  .  .  .  I  have  a  dreadful 
idea  that  Crampton  will  pigeon-hole  me  in  the 
H's." 

The  mouldy  secretary  looked  around  him  with—- 
what the  old-fangled  novelists  called — "  the  eyes  of 
the  hunted  antelope."  A  dash  of  the  colour  that 
had  tinged  his  character  in  the  old  University  days 
returned  to  him  like  a  whiff  of  youth.  The  hour 
was  certainly  propitious  for  everything  unusual  and 
unexpected.  Crampton  took  up  the  sheet  contain- 
ing the  words  he  had  just  read,  and  kissed  it.  It 
crackled  against  his  frayed-out  white-ended  mous- 
tache. Then,  as  though  ashamed  of  himself,  he 
tore  open  his  shirt  and  placed  Felicia's  writing  next 
to  his  heart.  "  Pigeon-holed  in  the  H  's,"  he  thought, 
and  this  eerie  person  actually  smiled  at  what  he 
considered  an  excellent  jeu  de  mot. 

All  this  had  taken  place  so  quickly,  that  by  the 
time  Crampton  was  in  the  open  air,  he  was  able  to 
see  the  figure  of  Rellerick  at  the  end  of  the  road, 
about  to  turn  into  a  street  at  the  right.  He  fol- 
lowed swiftly.  He  had  heard  of  somnambulists 


154  His  Own  Image 

performing  strange  feats  with  which  they  were  un- 
familiar when  awake,  but  he  could  not  suppose 
that  Rellerick  was  sleep-walking.  Could  the  actor 
be  in  pursuit  of  some  sordid  adventure  with  the 
street-walkers  that  infested  the  vicinity  ?  He  did 
not  believe  it,  for  the  actor  had  a  tinge  of  refine- 
ment, and  his  sexuality  had  never  seemed  protru- 
sive. 

Crampton  kept  about  two  hundred  yards  behind 
his  master.  The  chase  was  a  somewhat  exhaust- 
ing one.  The  secretary  noticed  the  soft  felt  hat 
that  the  actor  had  donned,  and  realized  the  fact 
that  his  mission  was  evidently  one  that  rendered 
recognition  undesirable.  By  the  time  that  the 
huge  brick  pile  in  the  Marylebone  Road  was 
reached,  Crampton  was  out  of  breath.  Reginald's 
hurried  steps  had  suggested  impulsion  by  electri- 
city. Such  violent  exercise  was  fatiguing  to  the 
secretary. 

He  stood  still  and  watched  his  master,  who 
stopped,  in  an  attitude  of  almost  reverent  study, 
before  Madame  Tussaud's  landmark.  He  remem- 
bered Reginald's  anger  with  the  servants  who  had 
visited  the  exhibition,  and  he  recalled  his  master's 
inquiries  on  the  subject  of  Dejazet,  whose  image, 
it  appeared,  strongly  resembled  him.  Crampton's 
fatigue  soon  left  him.  His  brain  set  to  work  with 
remarkable  facility,  and  it  made  out  an  astonish- 
ingly accurate  case  in  a  very  short  time. 

Reginald  walked  backwards  and  forwards  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  head  bowed. 
Occasionally  he  glanced  at  the  windows  of  the 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     155 

building  and  stood  still  peering  through  the  dark- 
ness. Crampton's  eyes  never  left  him.  At  the 
end  of  a  half  hour  the  secretary's  mind  was  made 
up.  He  approached  the  actor,  as  though  meeting 
him  in  an  opposite  direction,  and  when  a  few  yards 
away  from  him,  coughed  and  came  to  a  standstill. 

Reginald  looked  up,  and  Crampton  noted  the 
haggard,  anxious  expression  that  he  wore.  His 
eyes  were  sunken  and  lustreless ;  his  face  gray  in 
the  dull  midnight  street.  The  secretary  felt  a  sen- 
sation of  pity  sweeping  over  him.  He  was  rather 
sorry  that  he  had  broken  in  upon  him  so  suddenly. 
The  great  actor's  ego  however,  asserted  itself 
almost  instantaneously.  No  sooner  had  he  recog- 
nized this  intruder,  than  his  listless  demeanour  van- 
ished. The  life  came  back  to  his  eyes,  and  the 
vitality  to  his  expression.  His  imperial  impudence 
asserted  itself  rapidly. 

"  So  you  have  dared  to  follow  me,  sirrah,"  he 
said,  blazing  forth  into  anger,  and  feeling  a  sensa- 
tion of  relief  in  the  mere  change  of  sensation. 
"  You  have  presumed  to  spy  upon  my  actions.  I 
choose,  for  personal  reasons,  to  walk  in  this  neigh- 
bourhood with  my  thoughts,  but  I  find  myself 
confronted  by  my  paid  servant,  wearing  a  puzzled 
look,  and  behaving  like  a  missionary  attempting  to 
rescue  a  heathen." 

Crampton,  usually  so  limp  and  dejected,  did  not 
wither  beneath  this  scathimg  rebuke.  His  logical 
mind,  scenting  complications  the  significance  of 
which  he  could  not  over-estimate,  was  not  to  be 
imposed  upon.  Moreover,  he  was  genuinely 


156  His  Own  Image 

alarmed  at  the  expression  that  he  had  noticed 
upon  his  master's  face — an  expression  of  nervous 
exaltation  that  the  most  exacting  "  first  night  " 
had  failed  to  induce. 

He  looked  the  great  actor  calmly  in  the  eye,  and 
said  quietly,  "  If  I  were  you,  Mr.  Rellerick,  I  should 
not  brood  over  a  fancied  resemblance  to  a  waxen 
figure.  You  will  disturb  your  mind,  and  ruin  your 
mental  constitution.  It  is  absurd.  It  is  illogical. 
If  you  read  it  in  a  book,  you  would  say,  '  How  vastly 
improbable/  Forget  it — for  your  own  sake,  and 
for  that  of — "  Crampton's  voice  sank — "  of  the 
girl  who  has  promised  to  be  your  wife." 

Reginald  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  consolation 
at  the  beginning  of  his  secretary's  remarks.  They 
soothed  him  as  "  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote  " 
destined  to  "  raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the 
brain."  But  the  allusion  to  Felicia  was  unfortun- 
ate. Impossible  as  it  must  always  be  for  him  to 
forget  his  loathsome  double  in  this  museum,  it 
must  be  equally  out  of  the  question  peacefully  to 
consider  his  necessary  entanglement  with  Felicia. 
His  anger  gushed  forth. 

"Forget  !  Forget !"  he  cried  wrathfully.  "  Could 
you  go  quietly  to  bed,  and  sleep  calmly  through 
the  night,  knowing  that  a  jaundiced  but  frightfully 
accurate  model  of  yourself  was  standing,  reared  up 
among  an  army  of  murderers,  girl-decoyers,  and 
obnoxious  criminals  ?  I  ask  you — could  you  feel 
comfortable — you,  a  man  without  nerves,  a  healthy 
type  of  British  stolidity,  addicted  to  regular  habits 
and  stagnation  ?" 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     157 

Crampton  saw  him  shudder,  and  pondered  care- 
fully over  the  question.  Yes,  he  was  a  man  with- 
out nerves,  one  of  those  happy  go-to-bed-at-ten-and- 
get-up-at-six  specimens  of  English  health.  He  was 
a  college  man,  an  Oxford  M.  A.,  a  distinctly  normal 
person.  He  was  bound  to  admit  to  himself  that 
Reginald's  predicament  was  a  trying  one,  and  he 
realized  that  this  actor,  diseased  with  ego-mania, 
and  living  persistently  the  hothouse,  malarial  life 
of  the  stage,  was  a  magnificent  target  for  these 
arrows  of  the  imagination.  But  Crampton  resolved 
to  lie  rather  than  cater  to  such  imaginings.  What 
would  become  of  little  Felicia  Halstead,  linked  to 
such  a  character  ? 

So  he  answered  cautiously.  "  It  is  all  folly.  If 
I  heard  of  a  waxen  Crampton  in  Madame  Tussaud's 
wax-works,  I  should  laugh  at  it  as  a  ludicrous  coin- 
cidence. You,  with  your  fame,  could  work  this  up 
into  a  magnificent  advertisement  for  yourself. 
Think  of  it." 

He  tried,  in  this  way,  to  lure  him  from  the  miasma 
of  his  thoughts.  It  was  quite  useless.  A  shock 
went  through  Reginald's  system,  as  he  even  con- 
templated the  odious  idea  of  publicity.  An  actor 
will  submit  to  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  notor- 
iety's will-of-the-wisp,  but  the  real  ego-maniac  will 
not  endure  abject  humiliation,  because  he  has 
never  yet  discovered  a  public  that  is  worth  winning 
at  such  a  cost. 

"  No,"  he  said,  ferociously.  "  No,  no.  It  is  bad 
enough  to  know  that  this  unfortunate  creature  — 
this  yellow  waxen  horror — is  there,  without  publish- 


158  His  Own  Image 

ing  it  to  the  world.  And  he  stands  there  with  the 
vilest  of  the  earth." 

Crampton  thought  for  a  moment,  before  he  re- 
torted. "  Undoubtedly.  Would  you  see  him  with 
the  kings  and  queens — a  murderer  of  the  most 
noxious  type — a  brute  who,  after  having  ruined  a 
girl,  deliberately  took  her  life  ?" 

They  were  walking  slowly  towards  the  end  of  the 
railings  surrounding  the  Marylebone  edifice.  As 
Reginald  heard  Crampton's  words,  he  stood  still, 
and — just  for  one  second — he  wondered  at  himself. 
He  was  instantly  conscious  of  a  deep-rooted  resent- 
ment as  he  listened  to  his  secretary's  criticism  of 
Dejazet.  He  forgot  his  original  horror  at  the 
knowledge  that  Dejazet  was  a  murderer.  It 
seemed  to  him  at  the  present  time  that  such  accusa- 
tions were  hideous.  Pangs  shot  through  him  as 
Crampton  spoke  of  the  ruin  and  murder  of  a  girl. 
Then  he  gazed  indignantly  at  the  prosaic  Oxonian, 
and  lost  all  sense  of  restraint. 

"That's  hitting  a  man  when  he's  down,"  he 
declared  savagely.  "  It  is  insulting  and  unworthy. 
Dejazet  cannot  speak  for  himself,  but  I  am  thank- 
ful to  say  that  there  is  one  who  will  not  listen  to 
such  one-sided  charges.  How  do  we  know  what 
amount  of  provocation  he  endured?  Women  are 
the  devil.  The  horrid  feminine  idea  of  owning  a 
man's  body  and  soul  forever  has  been  the  cause  of 
untold  misery.  Dejazet  may  have  had  justification 
for  his  act,  such  as  the  world  knows  nothing  of. 
Why  call  a  man  a  murderer  because  the  mob  insists 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     159 

that  he  is  one  ?  The  mob  is  always  wrong.  The 
mob  has  injured  me.  I  hate  it.  I  hate  it." 

His  excitement  was  painful  to  see.  His  over- 
whelming ego-mania,  that  was  reaching  out  to  in- 
clude his  waxen  presentment,  filled  the  poor  secre- 
tary with  amazement.  The  actor  glanced  at  the 
windows  of  the  exhibition,  as  though  he  expected 
to  see  his  double  looking  out  to  applaud  him  for 
this  defense — to  applaud  him  with  those  smooth 
and  nailless  hands. 

"  The  mob  could  not  be  wrong  in  this  instance," 
Crampton  murmured,  almost  wishing  himself  back 
in  his  bed.  "  The  case  was  as  clear  as  a  pikestaff. 
He  murdered  his  mistress  on  their  wedding-night, 
and  was  captured  red-handed.  Moreover,  he  con- 
fessed his  crime.  What  court  of  justice  could  hope 
for  anything  more  ?  It  was  a  horror  in  the  annals 
of  crime." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  like  this  ?"  the  furious 
actor  cried,  the  volume  of  his  augmented  voice 
reaching  a  distant  policeman,  and  causing  that  in- 
dividual to  shake  off  his  lethargy.  "  I  will  not 
be  argued  with.  I  will  not  permit  it.  You  are  my 
satellite,  and  I  will  not  allow  you  to  thrust  me  into 
the  wrong."  Then,  changing  his  tone  to  one  of 
almost  supplicating  import,  "  Crampton,  you  are 
uncharitable.  You  believe  in  the  conventions  too 
fully.  Can  you  not,  as  a  man,  imagine  a  condition 
of  things  so  hideous  that  what  we  call  crime  would 
be  justifiable  in  order  to  remove  it.  Can  you  not 
believe  in  an  obstacle  so  monstrous  that  a  man  may 
be  pardoned  for  his  anxiety  to  rid  himself  of  it  ? 


160  His  Own  Image 

Suppose  Dejazet — poor  Dejazet — felt  that  his 
whole  artistic  career  was  imperilled  by  this 
woman,  this  clinging,  stupid  Genevieve  Delaunay. 
Suppose  he  felt  that  future  generations,  which  might 
possibly  be  delighted  with  his  work,  would  lose 
everything,  if  he  lived  with  this  millstone  round 
his  neck — this  daily  meal  of  hatred  constantly  be- 
fore him.  Suppose  all  this,  Crampton.  Why,  why 
should  he  be  placed  in  this  detestable  mausoleum 
to  be  gazed  at  day  after  day  by  vulgar  men  and 
women  with  catalogues  ?" 

Crampton  had  never  seen  his  master  in  such  a 
plight — with  all  his  soul  let  loose,  as  it  were.  The 
man  might  have  been  pleading  for  the  jewel  of  his 
own  reputation.  The  agony  of  his  recent  theatre 
failure  was  no  keener  than  this.  In  each  case  there 
was  an  injury  to  the  personality,  for  the  ego- 
maniac's defense  of  D6jazet  was  due  solely  to  the 
fact  that  the  murderer  was  flaunting  before  the 
public  in  his  image.  The  actor's  hair  was  damp 
and  the  perspiration  ran  in  drops  from  his  fore- 
head. His  ego  was  endangered,  and  he  had  noth- 
ing else  to  live  for.  There  was  nothing  else  in 
the  world,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  All  other  men 
and  women  were  mere  automata.  The  secretary 
scarcely  knew  what  to  do  or  say.  He  felt  that  the 
situation  was  far  more  serious  than  he  had  supposed 
it  to  be.  It  was  psychological — beyond  the  reach 
of  medicine  and  cheap  words. 

"There  may  have  been  provocation,  as  you  sug- 
gest," the  embarrassed  Crampton  remarked,  "  but 
for  the  sake  of  society — for  the  sake  of  organized 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     161 

decency,  we  dare  not  consider  it.  Probably  all  the 
figures  in  Madame  Tussaud's  Chamber  of  Horrors 
had  some  sort  of  provocation.  Mr.  Rellerick,  you 
must  not  dwell  on  that  matter.  It  is  the  feeble 
excuse  of  most  crime.  Adam  ate  the  apple  be- 
cause Eve  provoked  him  to  do  so.  Eve's  provoca- 
tion came  from  the  serpent.  Even  the  serpent — 
if  tried  in  court — could  find  a  lawyer  willing  to 
prove  that  he  was  innately  bad  and  suffering  from 
hereditary  taint.  We  must  conquer  our  provoca- 
tion." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  laughed  Reginald,  hysterically. 
"  Crampton,  you  talk  like  the  '  Child's  Stepping- 
Stone  to  Knowledge  '  or  '  Mangnall's  Questions.' 
I  don't  care  what  the  world  thinks  of  provocation. 
There  is  something  in  the  knowledge  that  it  has 
existed.  If  I  could  only  know — and  I  feel  certain 
of  it — that  this  unfortunate  artist  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning,  I  should  feel  easier  in  my 
mind.  I  must  know  it.  I  must  know  it,"  he  re- 
peated, grinding  his  teeth.  "  Poor  Dejazet." 

They  had  left  the  Marylebone  Road  and  were 
walking  quickly  to  the  west.  The  actor's  pallid 
face  and  sunken  cheeks  looked  as  lifeless  in  the 
darkness  as  those  of  the  wax-works  they  were  leav- 
ing behind  them.  It  was  a  gloomy  and  marrow- 
chilling  night.  Each  person  they  met  seemed  to 
be  abroad  for  some  sinister  motive.  The  sleeping 
houses  appeared  to  enclose  tightly  all  that  was 
light  und  virtuous  and  spiritual  in  the  tortuous  and 
Interminable  metropolis.  Women  spoke  to  them 
as  they  walked  through  the  clanking  thorough- 


162  His  Own  Image 

fares,  but  Reginald,  held  up  by  Crampton's  arm, 
was  pushed  rapidly  along. 

They  reached  Piccadilly  Circus,  bound  for  no- 
where at  all.  The  actor  was  anxious  for  move- 
ment and  sensation  of  any  sort.  The  secretary 
had  sunk  into  a  sort  of  comatose  condition  of 
dread  foreboding.  It  was  so  much  worse  than  he 
had  thought.  It  was  a  farce  turning  into  a  tragedy, 
as  so  often  happens  in  this  world,  where  extremes 
meet,  and  laughter  and  grief  overlap.  He  could 
imagine  this  wax-work  notion  that  was  weighing 
him  down,  as  the  theme  of  a  merry,  tripping  opera, 
with  waxen  nymphs  coming  to  life,  and  the  bogie- 
man  subjected  to  the  ever-enjoyable  insults  of  the 
modern  stage.  But  no  laugh  could  he  coax  to  his 
lips  at  the  present  time. 

Piccadilly  Circus  had  concluded  another  of  its 
infamous  nights,  and  was  comparatively  deserted. 
The  ghastly  galaxy  of  creatures  that  come  forth 
like  beetles  was  no  longer  apparent.  The  traffic 
was  over,  and  the  vampires  had  fled,  with  but  few 
exceptions.  Occasionally  the  occupant  of  a  cab 
looked  from  the  windows  to  see  if  anything  was 
"going  on."  A  few  women  chatted  hopelessly  with 
some  maudlin  boys,  who  were  on  their  way  home. 
The  curved  expanse  of  Regent  Street  looked  for- 
bidding enough,  but  Crampton  knew  that  in  the 
morning  it  would  be  gay  and  busy  once  more,  and 
that  the  virtuousest  matrons  would  stand  on  the 
very  spot  that  had  just  been  pressed  by  the  women 
of  the  pavement.  Messalina  and  Lucretia  share 
the  "modern  conveniences  "  of  London  together. 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square    163 

It  is  a  very  ingenious  sort  of  Box  and  Cox  arrange- 
ment. 

Reginald  and  Crampton  were  just  about  to  cross 
the  Circus  in  the  direction  of  the  Criterion  Theatre, 
when  two  highly  illuminated  women  coming  from 
the  Leicester  Square  vicinity  attracted  their  atten- 
tion. The  women  were  undoubtedly  French. 
They  had  very  large,  loose,  bulging  bodies,  tiny 
compressed  waists,  and  sinuously  padded  hips. 
They  were  laughing  and  talking  loudly,  and  they 
soon  noticed  the  two  men,  hesitant  at  the  curb- 
stone. 

As  the  largest  and  loudest  of  the  Frenchwomen 
approached  Reginald,  with  ribald  words  on  her  lips, 
she  suddenly  stopped,  as  though  paralyzed,  and 
clutched  at  the  arm  of  her  companion.  An 
electric  light  that  stood  near  showed  that  even 
beneath  the  kalsomine  on  her  cheeks  she  had  grown 
white  and  bloodless.  Reginald  heard  her  say 
'  Grand  del!'  and  a  moment  later,  in  response  to 
the  query  of  the  other,  she  cried,  "  Mais,  ma  cherie, 
c'est  Dtjazet  lui-m$me  ! 

Crampton  scarcely  noticed  the  words,  embedded 
in  French,  and  Parisianly  pronounced,  but  to  Regi- 
nald the  remark  came  like  a  bolt  from  the  skies. 
He  was  instantly  alert,  and  keenly  attentive  to  the 
protection  of  his  ego.  He  pulled  his  hat  over  his 
eyes,  and  started  to  cross  the  street.  The  siren 
from  Leicester  Square  was  not  in  the  least  non- 
plussed. She  followed  him,  deliberately  plucked 
his  hat  from  his  head,  and  standing  before  him, 
arms  akimbo,  gazed  at  him  relentlessly. 


164  His  Own  Image 

"  Sacre  bleu  /"  she  cried — and  there  was  awe  in 
her  tones,  "  'C'est  Dejaset  revenu  &  la  vie."  Then  in 
excellent  English,  "  My  little  gentleman,  you  re- 
mind me  of  a  friend  of  mine  who  is  dead — gathered 
by  force  to  his  ancestors.  Ah,  you  are  so  like  him. 
The  same  eyes,  the  same  chin,  the  same  hair,  the 
same  expression.  Tiens !  Tiens !  Tiens !  Ma 
mouchoir,  Cerisette,  que  j'e  pleure" 

Cerisette  had  joined  the  group.  She  immediately 
handed  a  handkerchief  to  the  large  lady,  who  forth- 
with dissolved  into  tears.  Reginald  was  so  agitated 
that  he  could  scarcely  speak.  Crampton,  upon 
whose  duller  brain  the  meaning  of  it  all  had  sud- 
denly dawned,  tried  by  brute  strength  to  drag  his 
master  away.  He  was  quite  powerless. 

"  I  will  not  go,"  the  actor  said,  hoarsely.  "  I 
will  not  go." 

"  No,  no,  do  not  go,"  cried  the  large  lady  ex- 
citedly, "  I  must  look  at  you  again.  Ah,  De'jazet, 
mon  pauvre  bon  homme  !  Te  voila  encore.  Tu  ne 
pour  rats  pas  rester  mort.  Sapristi  /" 

Again  she  wept,  and  Reginald  watched  her,  a 
wild  hope  rising  in  his  breast.  He  waited  until  her 
sobs  had  ceased.  t! 

"  You  knew  D6jazet  ?"  he  said.  "And  you  re- 
member him  pleasantly  in  spite  of  what  he  did  ?" 

"  I  knew  him.  I  loved  him.  If  he  had  remained 
with  me,  he  would  have  been  alive  to-day,  and  I 
would  have  been  true  to  him.  Then  there  would 
have  been  no  martyred  Genevieve.  The  martyred 
Genevieve  !  What  a  martyr  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !" 


The  Siren  of  Leicester  Square     165 

"  I  will  come  with  you,"  said  Reginald  excitedly, 
"  and  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  it." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  suspiciously,  and  then 
glanced  at  Crampton  in  the  background,  and  at 
Cerisette,  who  had  just  waved  a  farewell  and  de- 
parted in  quest  of  livelier  scenes,  with  a  thorough 
French  horror  of  the  tearful. 

"  This  is  no  investigation  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  have 
had  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing.  You  are  in 
earnest,  and  are  interested  in  De"  jazet's  story  ?" 

"  I  am  in  earnest,  before  heaven,"  replied  the 
actor  solemnly.  "And  I  will  pay  you  well  for 
your  trouble." 

"  They  have  him  at  Tussaud's — my  poor  D6jazet," 
she  whined.  "  And  I  would  willingly  go  to  him 
there,  if  I  could.  But,  Monsieur — Monsieur  is 
D£jazet.  The  same  eyes,  the  same  chin,  the  same 
hair,  the  same  expression.  C'est  fyatant" 

"  For  heaven's  sake,"  said  Crampton,  coming 
quickly  forward,  "  I  implore  you,  Mr.  Rellerick,  to 
leave  this  woman.  Think  of  your  reputation. 
What  would  London  say  if  it  saw  a  man  like  you 
parading  Leicester  Square  with  a  creature  like 
this  ?  Think  of  the  danger  of  what  you  are  doing. 
Think  of  the  scandal.  What  would  Miss  Halstead 
say  ?  For  her  sake  come  home  with  me." 

"  For  her  sake,"  cried  Reginald  contemptuously. 
"  For  my  own  sake,  I  will  clear  De"jazet  if  I  can, 
and  this  woman  will  help  me,  I  am  sure.  At  pres- 
ent, Crampton,  I  am  the  yellow  murderer  you  can 
see  for  one-and-sixpence  in  the  Marylebone  Road. 
I  cannot  rest  under  the  charge.  The  mob  may 


166  His  Own  Image 

always  believe  that  he  is  an  atrocity,  but  if  I  can 
think  otherwise,  I  may  once  again  be  happy. 
Write  and  tell  Felicia  that  you  left  me  in  the  com- 
pany of — what  is  your  name,  Madame?"  turning 
to  the  woman. 

"  They  call  me  La  Chinoise,"  she  said. 

"Tell  her  that  you  left  me  in  the  company  of  La 
Chinoise.  She  will  marry  me  still.  You  couldn't 
induce  her  to  do  anything  else.  I  am  not  afraid, 
Crampton.  At  first  I  thought  that  Felicia  wanted 
fame.  She  has  told  me  herself  that  she  will  sacri- 
fice everything  for  me.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  The  situa- 
tion is  clearing  itself.  Bon  jour,  Crampton.  A 
demain.  Wait  till  you  see  me  in  the  morning. 
And  now,  La  Chinoise,  we  will  get  into  a  cab,  and 
drive  to  your  mansion  in  Mayfair.  Not  Mayfair  ? 
Well,  Leicester  Square.  It  is  all  the  same  to  me, 
and  it  is  equally  London.  Hey,  cabby,  go  as  fast 
as  you  can.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost." 


Chapter  XI 


LA  CHINOISE  CONFESSES 

REGINALD'S  strange  exaltation — a  condition  that 
to  the  pompous  ego-maniac  was  a  comparatively 
novel  one — wore  off  before  he  reached  LaChinoise's 
apartment  in  one  of  the  sordid  thoroughfares  that 
open  into  Leicester  Square.  As  he  sat  beside  her, 
in  the  swiftly  moving  cab,  he  shut  his  eyes,  and  tried 
to  forget  the  odious  events  that  linked  Felicia  Hal- 
stead  with  the  dead  D£jazet  in  his  memory.  The 
task  was  an  impossible  one.  His  jangled  brain 
could  not  shut  out  the  picture  of  the  tallowy,  yel- 
low model  that  stood  erect  in  the  Marylebone  Road, 
staring  with  its  cold  glass  eyes,  and  inert  as  to  the 
smooth  and  nailless  hands.  The  torrent  of  his 
faith  was  rushing  him  into  a  keen  association  with 
Dejazet.  His  persistent  attention  to  the  hateful 
model,  far  from  having  opened  to  him  the  joyous 
jewelled  gates  of  the  humorous,  had  simply  en- 
tangled him  more  deeply.  And  now — and  now — 
he  sat  in  a  whirling  hansom  in  juxtaposition  with  a 
woman  whom  Dejazet  had  loved.  He  smiled  at 
Crampton's  serene  advice  to  forget  it  all.  Forget 
it  all !  Every  move  that  he  made  on  the  chess- 
board of  his  career  brought  him  into  Dejazet's  cir- 

[167] 


i68  His  Own  Image 

cle  more  surely.  He  cursed  the  Marylebone  Road, 
and  he  cursed  the  girl  whose  departure  from  Lon- 
don had  induced  him  into  that  bewildering  resort. 

La  Chinoise  was  not  talkative.  Her  frivolous, 
mendacious,  Parisian  nature  had  been  genuinely 
moved  by  her  encounter  with  Rellerick.  She  sat 
still  and  rested,  until  her  mercenary  nature  should 
have  recuperated  itself,  and  she  could  face  a  situa- 
tion that  might  prove  profitable.  La  Chinoise,  like 
most  of  her  class,  despised  her  metier.  She  had 
not  visited  Piccadilly  Circus  for  fun,  and  she  would 
be  a  fool  for  her  pains,  if  she  allowed  a  sickly  sen- 
timentality to  interfere  with  legitimate  business. 
She  was  a  handsome  woman,  marred  by  the  fatal  art 
of  "make-up" — over-decorated,  over-illuminated, 
over-dyed,  over-dressed,  over-padded,  over-every- 
thing.  Nature  unadorned  was  to  her  a  myth. 

They  alighted  at  her  apartment,  and  she  led  the 
way  carelessly  to  her  sanctum  sanctorum.  Her 
usual  moods  were  re-asserting  themselves,  and  by 
the  time  that  Reginald  had  thrown  his  dejected 
personality  into  a  chair  her  impudent  courtesanship 
was  on  the  surface  again,  and  she  was  congratula- 
ting herself  upon  the  accidental  resemblance  that 
promised  to  make  her  day  lucrative. 

He  sat  there,  helplessly  oppressed  and  pensive, 
and  watched  her  as  she  removed  her  gown,  and 
threw  over  the  nudity  of  her  shoulders  a  peignoir 
of  thick  pink  silk  and  lace.  Then  he  saw  her  shake 
the  masses  of  her  sultry  hair  into  a  flowing  mass 
that  reached  to  the  waist-line.  So  had  Dejazet  sat 
and  looked.  He  could  not  help  wondering  if  there 


La  Chinoise  Confesses  169 

was  envy  in  the  glassy  eyes  of  the  monster  in  the 
museum.  There  might  be.  He  thought  of  that 
horrid  watch  among  the  waxen  criminals.  The 
semi-obscurity  of  La  Chinoise's  room  angered  him. 
Springing  to  his  feet,  he  struck  a  match,  and  lighted 
every  jet  in  the  dust-clouded  chandelier. 

"  Monsieur  loves  the  light,"  said  La  Chinoise, 
smiling,  as  she  kicked  the  boots  from  her  feet,  and 
ran  her  toes  into  a  pair  of  pink-lined  slippers 
bounded  on  the  instep  by  whitest  fur.  "  Moi, 
aussi'.  I  am  not  like  you  Londoners,  who  are  happy 
in  gloom  and  darkness.  II  faut  etre  gaiy  car  demain 
nous  mourons"  she  murmured. 

Her  smile  was  most  attractive.  It  was  the  smile 
that — according  to  her  words — had  fascinated  De- 
jazet.  Strange  that  he  should  now  be  basking  in 
its  warmth.  The  very  counterpart  of  the  poor 
artist  whose  joys  and  sorrows  and  virtues  and  crimes 
had  ended — in  wax. 

"  Tell  me,  chdri"  said  La  Chinoise,  coming  to 
him,  sinking  at  his  feet,  and  looking  up  alluringly 
into  his  eyes  as  picturesquely  as  she  was  able  to  do 
it — for  her  lissome  days  were  over — "  Tell  me  if  we 
had  not  better  forget  the  unfortunate  Dejazet.  It 
is  painful  to  me  to  talk  of  him.  I  should  much  pre- 
fer not  to  do  so.  You  recall  him  to  me.  Does  not 
that  satisfy  you  ?  Let  poor  Dejazet  rest." 

Reginald  looked  at  the  woman  with  a  ruddy 
glow  of  anger  in  his  eyes.  Did  she  imagine  that 
he,  Reginald  Rellerick,  London's  pet  actor,  feted 
everywhere,  a  household  word  through  the  United 
Kingdom,  had  deliberately  elected  to  visit  her  in 


170  His  Own  Image 

Leicester  Square  with  any  object  other  than  that  he 
had  named?  The  man's  ego-mania  revived  imme- 
diately, his  expression  changed,  and  he  gazed  at  La 
Chinoise  with  the  supercilious  air  that  he  usually 
vented  upon  Crampton,  and  Felicia  Halstead,  and 
the  other  satellites  of  his  daily  life.  His  inability 
to  endure  the  malaise  of  being  unknown  prompted 
him  to  identification.  He  proceeded,  in  his  arrant 
coxcombry,  to  "  give  himself  away." 

"You  are  mistaken,  woman,"  he  said  imperi- 
ously, "  if  you  imagine  that  you  are  dealing  with 
an  inebriated  soldier  or  a  Londoner  out  for  the 
night.  I  am  Reginald  Rellerick,  the  actor.  My 
name  is  undoubtedly  familiar  to  you.  I  told  you 
why  I  came.  I  promised  you  that  I  would  pay 
you  well.  Tell  me  what  you  know  of  Dejazet,  and 
let  us  finish  this  miserable  evening.  My  resem- 
blance to  the  man  you  loved  has  startled  me  as 
profoundly  as  it  has  astonished  you.  The  model 
of  Tussaud's  has  overwhelmed  me,  until  I  hardly 
know  whether  I  am  here  with  you,  or  there  with 
him.  They  have  called  him  a  murderer.  You 
insinuated  that  Genevieve  was  no  martyr.  Ex- 
plain. Explain." 

She  stared  at  him,  blankly  amazed,  forgetting  her 
coquetries — the  tricks  of  her  hideous  trade.  Her 
round  face  rested  on  her  elbows,  and  the  lace  of 
her  sleeves  fell  back,  revealing  a  white  and  rounded 
arm  that  an  artist  would  scarcely  have  passed  un. 
noticed.  This  was  the  rich  actor  of  whom  she  had 
heard — whom  indeed  she  had  seen,  although  her 
days  in  London  had  been  very  few.  Yes,  she  re- 


La  Chinoise  Confesses  171 

membered  that,  in  the  disguise  of  the  role  she  had 
seen  him  play,  some  vague  lost  souvenir  of  Dejazet 
had  occurred  to  her. 

She  continued  to  look  at  him.  He  was  nervous, 
unstrung,  irresponsible.  This  was  a  richer  prize 
than  she  had  imagined.  Cerisette  had  brought  her 
luck.  Cerisette  should  be  her  nocturnal  partner 
henceforth.  She  had  the  deep-rooted  superstitions 
of  the  luckless  sisterhood. 

"What  shall  I  tell  you?"  she  asked  quickly. 
"  What  is  it  that  you  wish  to  know  ?" 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said  pantingly,  "  that  this  man 
whose  features  I  wear,  and  whose  outward  sem- 
blance I  can  never  shake  off,  was  not  the  vulgar, 
purposeless  criminal  that  he  has  been  painted. 
Tell  me  that  he  did  not  shed  the  blood  of  Gen- 
evieve  Delaunay  out  of  sheer  brutality.  Let  me 
understand  him,  so  that  when  I  see  his  waxen  im- 
age again,  I  may  know  the  whole  truth." 

La  Chinoise  was  awe-struck.  The  muddy  depths 
of  her  character  were  stirred.  This  man  was  inter- 
esting her,  in  spite  of  herself.  The  larder  was 
empty  ;  she  was  hungry,  thirsty,  and  tired,  in  her 
silks  and  laces,  but  this  actor,  with  his  high-falutin" 
sentences  was  impressing  her. 

"Listen," she  said,  "  and  perhaps  you  will  under- 
stand. Dejazet  and  Genevieve  Delaunay  met  in 
the  Quartier  Latin.  They  were  both  young.  He 
was  an  artist  fighting  his  way  to  fame.  She  was — 
well,  I  don't  know  what  she  was.  The  story  of  her 
illustrious  name  may  be  true,  but  I  have  my  sus- 


172  His  Own  Image 

picions  of  Genevieve  Delaunay.  I  never  believed 
that  she  was  true  to  him." 

"  And  you  told  him  that  ?"  asked  Reginald, 
eagerly. 

"  Let  me  continue.  Their  manage  endured  for 
a  long  time.  They  were  popular  in  the  Quartier. 
Everybody  liked  them,  and  they  kept  open  house. 
His  name  at  last  became  known.  There  was  a  rage 
for  Dejazet  pictures.  She  was  proud  of  him,  jeal- 
ous of  him,  and  imperious  with  him.  I  don't 
believe  that  he  had  ever  loved  her  very  keenly. 
Many  people  told  me  that  he  had  tried  to  break 
with  her,  but  had  desisted,  fearing  a  scandal.  It 
was  in  one  of  his  weariest  moments  that  he  met 
me.  I  would  have  gone  through  blood  and  fire  for 
him,  for  I  grew  to  love  him  as  I  have  never  loved 
anyone.  He  installed  me  in  a  little  house  in  Passy, 
and  there  he  used  to  see  me,  guarding  his  secret  as 
carefully  from  Genevieve  Delaunay  as  though  she 
had  been  his  legitimate  wife.  Still,  he  lived  for  his 
art.  He  was  a  maniac  on  the  subject  of  his  art. 
His  ambition  was  to  be  internatiorally  famous — to 
sell  his  pictures  in  England  and  America — " 

"Goon,"  cried  Reginald,  as  she  paused,  "  and 
come  to  the  point.  Never  mind  about  art." 

"  I  must,"  she  said,  "it  is  the  whole  point  of  the 
story.  He  had  grown,  as  I  said,  to  be  quite  indif- 
ferent to  Genevieve  Delaunay.  His  intercourse 
with  me  fanned  that  indifference  into  hatred.  He 
used  to  tell  me  that  to  meet  her  day  after  day,  and 
live  in  her  society  week  after  week,  was  utterly  re- 
pulsive to  him.  If  it  had  not  been  for  me  he  could 


La  Chinoise  Confesses  173 

not  have  endured  it.  I  helped  him,  he  said,  to  find 
some  consolation  in  living.  He  was  a  rather  mel- 
ancholy, morose  sort  of  man." 

La  Chinoise  stopped  again  and  looked  at  Regi- 
nald's face.  It  was  so  much  like  that  of  the  dead 
Dejazet  that  for  the  moment  she  seemed  to  be 
telling  his  story  to  himself. 

"  Well,"  she  resumed,  "  you  know  something  of 
what  followed.  Genevieve's  relatives,  who  had  been 
hunting  for  her,  discovered  her  whereabouts.  You 
read  the  story  of  their  indignation,  and  remember 
that  a  duel  was  arranged  between  D£ jazet  and  Gene- 
vieve's brother.  If  he  won,  Genevieve  was  to  go 
back  to  her  relatives  near  Lyons.  If  he  lost,  he 
would  marry  her.  He  lost.  That  day  he  came  to 
me.  '  Claire,'  he  said — I  was  Claire  in  those  days, 
for  my  nickname  had  not  been  born — '  I  have  lost 
everything.  I  must  marry  this  girl,  and  you  and  I 
must  end  our  relations.  I  will  try  and  do  my  duty. 
Perhaps  I  have  been  a  brute.  I  hate  her  now,  but, 
possibly,  when  she  is  my  wife,  bearing  my  name,  I 
may  become,  at  any  rate,  more  reconciled  to  my 
life.' " 

La  Chinoise  wiped  a  tear  from  her  eye,  but  she 
went  on  :  "  You  cannot  realize  what  all  this  meant 
to  me.  Never  for  one  moment  had  I  contemplated 
the  possibility  of  his  losing  that  duel.  The  very 
idea  that  Dejazet  couM  marry  Genevieve  Delaunay 
was,  to  me,  too  utterly  preposterous  to  even  worry 
about.  In  fact,  it  had  not  caused  me  a  moment's 
trouble.  For  a  time,  after  he  had  convinced  me 
that  marriage  was  absolutely  inevitable,  I  was 


His  Own  Image 


dazed  and  dumbfounded.  Then  I  registered  a  vow 
that  this  marriage  should  never  take  place,  if  I 
could  prevent  it.  I  determined  to  watch  Gene- 
vieve.  She  was  away  from  home  a  great  deal,  and 
I  hoped  to  discover  that  she  had  other  lovers,  and 
thus  publish  her  infamy  to  her  own  relatives. 
Alas  !  What  I  discovered  was  worse,  and  it  led 
to  the  tragedy." 

Reginald  was  all  a-fever  with  excitement.  He 
almost  fell  upon  the  words  as  they  escaped  from 
the  lips  of  La  Chinoise. 

"  As  I  told  you,"  she  said,  "  De"jazet  lived  for  his 
art.  Love  was  a  secondary  consideration.  It  was  a 
pastime.  Art  swallowed  up  all  the  serious  episodes 
of  his  years.  He  had  been  annoyed  for  a  long 
time  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  certain  pictures 
in  the  market  labelled  '  Suire.'  The  pictures  were 
much  praised,  and  their  technique  strongly  re- 
sembled that  of  Dejazet  himself.  He  was  unable 
to  discover  the  identity  of  '  Suire,'  who  seemed  to 
be  a  myth.  He  was  invariably  told  that  an  intro- 
duction would  be  forthcoming,  but  difficulties 
always  ensued.  Poor  Dejazet  !  He  was  horribly 
jealous  of  the  new  pictures.  They  were  spoken  of 
in  the  same  way  as  his  own.  Soon  people  began 
to  talk  of  the  D6  jazet-Suire  school  of  art.  It  was  a 
bitter  blow  to  him.  He  hated  Suire  without  know- 
ing him  in  the  least.  And  then  came  my  fatal 
work.  As  I  told  you,  I  determined  to  watch 
Genevieve  Delaunay.  I  did  so,  and  discovered 
that  her  absence  from  home  was  easily  accounted 
for.  She  had  a  studio  of  her  own.  She  was  an 


L,a  Chinoise  Confesses  175 

artist  herself.  She  was  the  redoubtable  Suire.  If 
I  had  only  known  enough  to  keep  this  knowledge 
to  myself  !  But  I  didn't.  I  was  blinded  by  hatred, 
and  a  desire  to  prevent  the  marriage  of  Dejazet 
and  Genevieve.  I  went  straight  to  him,  and  told 
him  that  the  precious  girl,  who  was  to  be  his  wife, 
was  his  deadly  rival  in  art,  the  unknown  Suire." 

Reginald  gazed  at  the  woman  in  wonder.  A  vast 
and  surging  sympathy  for  Dejazet  took  possession 
of  him.  Joy  illumined  his  face,  as  he  thought  of 
the  yellow,  nailless  thing  in  the  Marylebone  Road, 
and  its  complete  justification.  Here  was  a  man, 
wrapped  up  in  his  art,  carving  a  name  for  himself 
in  the  marble  of  posterity,  living  for  the  multitude 
only — suddenly  confronted  with  the  torture  of 
rivalry.  Before  he  heard  any  further,  he  was  ready 
to  pinnacle  Dejazet,  for  was  he  not — Reginald 
could  not  finish  his  thought.  His  face  grew  gray 
in  the  brilliantly  lighted  room  ;  the  joy  left  his 
eyes  ;  he  saw  the  pink-clad  courtesan  still  kneeling 
in  confession  before  him.  The  hideous  parallel 
that  streaked  him  side  by  side  with  Dejazet,  be- 
came blackly  emphatic.  He  placed  his  hands  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  murmured,  "  I  must  not  justify 
him.  I  dare  not  justify  him.  I  will  hear  no  more. 
Let  me  go." 

He  arose,  and  staggered  towards  the  door. 
From  his  pocket  he  took  his  purse,  and  emptied 
twenty  shining  sovereigns  into  a  vase  on  La  Chi- 
noise's  table.  The  woman  heard  the  chink  of  the 
falling  money.  It  satisfied  the  mercenary  direc- 
tion of  her  character,  but  this  actor  had  interested 


176  His  Own  Image 

her  so  strongly,  that  she  made  an  effort  to  detain 
him  longer. 

"  I  will  finish,"  she  cried,  "  I  must  finish.  Listen 
for  a  few  minutes  more." 

She  forced  him  back  to  his  seat,  and  fell  again 
at  his  knees,  the  pink  billows  of  her  silken  skirt 
enveloping  him. 

"  Dejazet  was  insane  when  he  heard  that  his  rival 
was  his  own  mistress,"  she  continued,  as  calmly  as 
she  could.  "  He  had  hated  her  before.  Now  his 
hatred  took  the  form  of  mania.  '  She  is  robbing 
me  of  everything,'  he  said  to  me,  '  and  yet  I  am 
bound  to  marry  her.'  He  taxed  the  girl  with  her 
perfidy.  Her  excuses  may  seem  natural  to  you, 
but  to  him  and  to  me  they  were  forced  and  exag- 
gerated. She  told  him  that  she  had  no  love  for  art 
itself ;  and  no  original  ideas  whatsoever.  She  had 
lived  with  him  for  years,  and  she  had  studied  him 
carefully.  It  had  occurred  to  her,  she  said,  that 
the  time  might  come  when  his  resources  would  end. 
He  had  worked  for  so  long  that  fatigue  might  set 
in  at  any  time.  Moreover,  she  wished  to  see  him 
rich,  and  in  a  position  to  retire,  if  he  cared  to  do 
so.  So  she  determined  to  work  herself,  and  save 
her  money  for  him.  She  copied  his  style,  and  en- 
croached upon  his  ideas.  The  success  that  came 
to  her  was  welcome  to  her  for  his  sake  only.  She 
cared  nothing  for  what  the  critics  said.  In  fact,  she 
never  bothered  herself  about  their  words.  And  as 
a  proof  of  all  this,  she  brought  her  savings  to  him 
— thousands  of  francs — and  threw  them  into  his 
lap.  She  gave  them  to  him  freely,  she  said,  and 


La  Chinoise  Confesses  177 

only  wished  that  there  were  more.  And  more 
there  should  be,  for  she  would  work,  and  work  for 
his  sake." 

A  groan  from  Reginald  frightened  La  Chinoise. 
She  poured  some  brandy  from  a  decanter,  and  held 
it  to  his  lips. 

"  He  was  intensely  exasperated,"  she  said.  "  Of 
course  he  declined  to  believe  her  words.  They 
were  plausible,  but  nothing  more.  I  know  of  no 
woman  on  this  earth  who  could  snap  her  fingers  at 
fame,  and  say  to  any  one  man,  '  I  prefer  you.' 
Such  a  creature  doesn't  exist.  She  would  be  a 
curiosity  if  she  did.  I  told  him  that.  Was  I  not 
right  ?" 

The  actor  swallowed  the  brandy,  and  gasped  : 
"  You  were  right — you  were  right,"  he  shouted. 
"  Of  course  you  were  right.  The  woman  who  pro- 
fesses to  look  upon  success  as  a  secondary  consid- 
eration, is  a  liar  and  a  perjurer.  Yes,  you  were 
right.  And  he  believed  you — did  he  not  ?" 

"He  believed  me,"  said  La  Chinoise.  "He 
loved  me  as  much  as  he  hated  her.  He  used  to 
tell  me  that  if  I  had  been  in  her  place  originally  it 
would  have  been  different,  for  his  love  would  never 
have  changed.  But  he  was  not  a  bad  man.  Even 
after  this  terrible  discovery — a  discovery  that  nearly 
unhinged  his  reason,  he  thought  of  me,  and  of  my 
empty  life.  He  would  have  broken  his  promise  for 
my  sake,  and  have  positively  declined  to  tie  him- 
self for  life  to  Genevieve  Delaunay,  had  it  not  been 
for  her  relatives.  They  forced  him  literally  at  the 


178  His  Own  Image 

point  of  the  sword  to  the  marriage  ceremony,  and 
— and — as  you  know,  it  took  place." 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered,  "I  know.  It  took  place." 
"  The  rest,"  she  said,  breaking  into  sobs,  "  it  is 
not  necessary  to  dwell  upon.  Imagine  the  poor 
fellow  alone  with  the  woman  he  hated — alone  with 
her,  as  his  wife,  for  the  first  time.  To  a  man  of  his 
artistic  temperament  what  must  it  have  meant  ? 
There  she  was,  linked  to  him  until  death  should 
intervene.  She  had  ruined  his  life  in  every  way, 
and  the  married  career  was  calmly  to  begin.  I 
have  not  much  imagination,"  inserted  La  Chinoise, 
drying  her  eyes  with  a  tiny  lace  handkerchief,  "  but 
I  can  see  that  wedding-night  before  me — the  bride 
stupidly  happy  in  her  senseless,  colourless,  merciless 
way  ;  the  bridegroom  writhing  in  agony  at  a  fate 
that  compelled  him  to  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
the  creature  he  detested,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  year  after  year.  I  can  understand  it  all — 
the  rebellion  of  his  proud,  artistic  nature,  the  brave 
determination  to  remove  so  fatal  an  obstacle,  the 
murder — " 

La  Chinoise  sank  back  pale  and  shuddering. 
Her  callous  nature  had  its  sensitive  spots,  and  her 
sympathy  for  the  criminal  she  had  loved  overcame 
her.  Reginald  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  sensa- 
tion of  gratitude  and  of  admiration,  apparent  even 
in  his  eyes.  She  was  a  handsome  woman  and  an 
intelligent  woman.  She  had  never  thrust  herself 
in  the  path  of  any  man.  Her  calling  was  degrad- 
ing, humiliating,  beyond  the  pale  of  even  Christian 
charity,  but  she  was  a  woman  who  understood  the 


La  Chinoise  Confesses  179 

tortures  of  the  artist  confronted  with  ingratitude 
and  the  terrors  of  rivalry. 

She  could  understand  and  condone  the  fate  of 
Dejazet.  And  he  thought  again  of  the  silent,  star- 
ing figure  in  the  Tussaud  exhibition,  at  which  the 
ribald  mob  gazed  all  day,  and  of  which  the  cata- 
logues had  told  cruel  lies  in  plausible  prose. 

"  You  understood  him,"  murmured  Reginald, 
bending  forward  to  rouse  her  from  the  semi-swoon 
into  which  she  had  fallen,  "  you  understood  him  so 
well.  You  have  the  artist's  soul.  You  realize  the 
agony  of  interrupted  glory — the  pain  of  knowing 
that  an  interloper  is  wresting  your  laurels  away — 
that  all  your  efforts  will  count  for  nothing — that 
the  fickle  public  will  tire  of  you  and  ring  their 
praises  in  the  ears  of  your  successor.  That  was 
what  he  suffered,  and  what — " 

"  You  suffer  ?"  she  asked,  softly. 

He  bowed  his  head.  She  bent  down  and  kissed 
it  softly. 

"  De"  jazet !"  she  said.  "  My  own  De*jazet  once 
more  !" 

The  name  was  uttered  and  it  caused  him  no 
spasm  of  anguish.  She  had  applied  it  to  him,  and 
he  wondered  why  the  sound  was  so  soothing  and 
so  gracious. 

"  I  will  call  you  De"jazet,"  she  said,  "  and  my 
better  days  will  return  to  me,  with  the  sun  and  the 
happiness  of  Paris,  instead  of  the  clouds  and  the 
misery  of  London.  And  you  will  call  me  Claire. 
He  used  to  call  me  Claire.  La  Chinoise  is  my 


180  His  Own  Image 

nickname  in  Leicester  Square,  and  I  thought  I 
should  wear  it  for  ever.  Will  you  call  me  Claire  ?" 
And  the  ego-maniac,  subdued  as  he  had  never 
been  before,  intimidated,  bewildered,  hopeful,  mur- 
mured, "  Claire." 


Chapter  XII 

JUSTIFYING  CRIME. 

THERE  was  little  sleep  for  the  mouldy  Crampton 
after  he  had  left  Reginald  Rellerick  in  the  toils  of 
La  Chinoise.  He  returned  to  the  actor's  apart- 
ment, and  went  conventionally  to  bed,  but  he  was 
apprehensive  and  ill  at  ease.  Vivid  pictures  of  a 
gross  and  disastrous  scandal  arose  in  his  perplexed 
imagination.  But  the  victim  in  the  case  was  always 
Felicia  Halstead — never  Reginald  Rellerick.  He 
saw  the  little  goddess  of  his  middle-age  rudely  con- 
fronted with  the  horror  of  her  idol's  iniquity,  and 
all  his  hopes  were  centred  in  a  wild  idea  of  helping 
her  over  the  morass  that  was  opening  before  her. 

He  was  at  his  desk  early,  with  his  paste-pot  and 
scissors.  There  was  always  something  to  scrap- 
book — clippings  from  sleepy,  out-of-town  papers 
that  arrived  weeks  later.  The  press  comments 
upon  Rellerick  and  his  doings  were  surprisingly 
numerous.  No  wonder  that  there  are  more  ego- 
maniacs in  the  footlight  calling  than  in  any  other 
walk  of  life.  Men,  better,  worthier  and  honester 
in  every  way  than  the  illuminated  exponents  of 
mimic  passions,  may  live  and  die  "  unparagraphed  " 
and  unknown.  Those  who  really  love,  and  hate, 

[181] 


182  His  Own  Image 

and  sin,  and  die,  may  escape  unsmirched  by  printer's 
ink.  It  is  for  the  people  who  pretend  to  do  it  all 
for  so  much  per  week,  that  the  paragrapher  exists 
in  all  his  strength.  The  actor's  road,  leading  to  the 
goal  known  as  "  Household  Words,"  is  a  swift  and 
easy  one.  He  is  pushed  toward  it  by  the  willing 
hand  of  the  press.  For  the  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the 
clergyman,  and  the  scholar  it  is  harder.  They  are 
real  and  desperate,  and  "  too  much  advertisement  " 
would  be  bad  for  their  souls.  It  is  given  gratui- 
tously to  the  man  of  the  stage,  and  in  return  he 
barks  at  the  donor  and  envelopes  himself  in  his  own 
ego-mania. 

Reginald  Rellerick  joined  Crampton  at  noon,  just 
as  the  feverish  forebodings  of  the  early  morning 
hours  were  returning  to  the  secretary.  The  actor 
was  quieter  than  Crampton  had  seen  him  since  the 
beginning  of  the  Tussaud  affair.  His  eyes  were 
calmer  and  brighter.  These  symptoms  gave  the 
secretary  no  satisfaction.  They  were  abnormal, 
and  had  been  scandalously  brought  about. 

The  actor  took  his  usual  long  chair,  and  waited 
for  Crampton  to  speak.  He  waited  in  vain,  and 
irritated  by  the  silence — there  is  nothing  more  ex- 
asperating on  earth — he  took  the  initiative  as  amia- 
bly as  possible. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  know,"  he  said — and  there 
was  an  undercurrent  of  satire  in  his  tones — "  that 
my  evening  was  absolutely  successful.  I  have 
heard  Dejazet's  justification.  I  told  you  that  I  be- 
lieved there  was  much  to  be  condoned.  I  am  now 
satisfied  that  my  double  " — he  emphasized  the  word 


Justifying  Crime  183 

with  ferocity — "  was  less  detestable  than  the  world 
supposed." 

Crampton  shuffled  uneasily.  "  In  other  words," 
he  stammered,  "  you  can  excuse  the  man  who  mur- 
dered the  girl  that  trusted  him." 

"There  were  extenuating  circumstances,"  the 
actor  murmured. 

"  Society  does  not  admit  of  extenuating  circum- 
stances," retorted  the  secretary  indignantly,  shed- 
ding his  coat  of  mould,  and  posing  before  his  aston- 
ished master  in  the  new  light  of  accuser.  "  Society 
takes  no  heed  of  such  excuses.  The  lunatic  asy- 
lums are  filled  with  the  people  who  make  them. 
Be  careful,  Mr.  Rellerick.  You  have  gone  far — 
very  far.  I  should  advise  you  to  stop.  The  papers 
are  beginning  to  scent  something  unusual.  Here 
is  a  paragraph  that  I  clipped  this  morning  from  the 
Weekly  Squib.  Read  it." 

He  handed  a  square  cutting  to  the  actor  who 
read  as  follows  :  "  Strange  forces  seem  to  be  at 
work  in  the  complicated  personality  of  the  actor, 
Reginald  Rellerick.  There  are  those  who  say  that 
his  recent  failure  in  Pinerville's  new  play  has  seri- 
ously affected  his  mind.  Although  he  announced 
his  intention  of  taking  a  long-needed  rest  at  the 
summer-resorts  that  he  has  always  patronized,  he  is 
known  to  be  in  London.  Mr.  Rellerick  has  been 
seen  at  Madame  Tussaud's  wax-work  exhibition  in 
the  Marylebone  Road,  eagerly  studying  the  newly 
added  model  of  Dejazet,  the  notorious  criminal,  re- 
cently guillotined  in  Paris.  The  figure  is  a  speak- 
ing likeness  of  Rellerick,  and  they  say  that  it  has 


184  His  Own  Image 

annoyed  him  considerably.  We  are  suspicious  of 
the  theatrical  profession.  We  are  unwilling  to 
cater  to  the  rage  for  advertisement  that  afflicts  the 
actor  and  actress.  This  paper  tries  to  steer  away 
from  that  sort  of  thing.  In  the  present  case,  how- 
ever, there  is  genuine  apprehension  for  Mr.  Rel- 
lerick's  condition.  We  cannot  afford  to  lose  him 
yet." 

"  Dolts !"  exclaimed  Reginald,  tearing  the  paper 
into  atoms.  "  Dolts  !  What  shall  I  do  about  it, 
Crampton  ?  Shall  I  write  one  of  my  characteristic 
letters,  full  of  sarcasm,  and  sparkle — a  letter  that 
will  be  read  and  commented  upon  everywhere  ? 
Or  shall  I  confer  with  the  Tussaud  management 
with  a  view  to  having  the  figure  removed  from  the 
Chamber  of  Horrors?" 

Crampton  turned  and  regarded  him  pitilessly. 
"  I  advise  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "  to  oust  yourself 
from  the  web  that  is  closing  around  you.  It  is  due 
to  your  own  irrevocable  selfishness.  Try  and  forget 
yourself  and  these  matters  entirely.  This  D6jazet 
incident  has  troubled  you.  Let  it  rest.  Your 
efforts  to  justify  the  crime  of  a  brute  who  resem- 
bles you — merely  because  he  resembles  you — is  out- 
rageous. My  counsel  to  you  is  to  forget  Tussaud's, 
to  leave  London,  to  break  off  your  engagement 
with  Miss  Halstead,  and  to  start  upon  your  next 
season  like  a  man — ready  for  success,  if  success  is 
possible  ;  prepared  for  failure,  if  failure  must  come." 

Reginald  winced  at  this  unusual  tone,  but  now, 
convinced  that  Crampton  was  in  league  against  him 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,  he  resolved  to  overlook 


Justifying  Crime  185 

their  relative  positions  as  master  and  servant,  and 
see  which  way  the  wind  was  blowing. 

"  That  is  your  advice,"  he  said,  sneeringly.  "  And 
pray  what  has  Miss  Halstead  to  do  with  the  case  ? 
Why  should  I  relinquish  the  woman  I — I — love, 
merely  because  a  weekly  scandal-monger  suggests 
that  Madame  Tussaud's  exhibition  has  affected  my 
reason?" 

The  frankness  of  the  question  perplexed  the 
hopeless  secretary.  Crampton,  however,  decided 
that  to  voice  his  suspicions  would  perhaps  be  to 
fill  the  actor's  fevered  brain  with  new  ideas.  He 
took  a  radical  course. 

"  You  do  not  love  Miss  Halstead,"  he  said. 
"  Marriage  with  her  would  be  an  evil  thing  for  both 
of  you.  The  engagement  must  be  broken  off. 
Further  scandal  must  be  stopped.  There  is  no 
middle  course." 

"  And  if  I  do  not  marry  Felicia  Halstead  " — the 
actor  made  a  frantic  effort  to  be  cool  as  he  asked 
the  question — "  what  will  she  do  ?  She  loves  me. 
It  is  the  object  of  her  life  to  be  my  wife.  Sup- 
pose I  break  off  our  engagement.  What  will 
happen  ?" 

His  pulses  beat  wildly.  He  hoped  against  hope 
that  this  quaint  Oxonian  Master  of  Arts,  might 
also  be  master  of  the  non-collegiate  art  of  dispos- 
ing of  his  detested  rival  without  the  infamy  of  the 
wedding.  It  seemed  ages  before  Crampton  an- 
swered. It  was  in  reality  one  second. 

"  She  will  try  to  establish  herself  as  an  actress  in 
London.  She  will  accept  the  offers  that  she  has 


i86  His  Own  Image 

had.  Yes,  she  has  had  them.  But  the  difficul- 
ties that  beset  a  woman  alone  and  unprotected 
are  innumerable.  She  will  succeed  for  a  season, 
and  then — then  you  will  have  the  coast  to  your- 
self." 

Poor  Felicia !  As  he  uttered  this  callous  pro- 
phecy— this  cruelty  for  the  sake  of  kindness — 
Crampton  saw  her  once  more  as  she  sat  in  the  cab 
beside  him,  driving  through  the  gray  and  early 
London  to  an  unspeakable  destiny.  He  glared 
mercilessly  at  the  ego-maniac. 

"  You  are  too  hopeful,  Crampton,"  Reginald 
said  quietly,  "  too  wickedly  hopeful,  I  might  add. 
I  should  like  to  ask  you  your  reasons  for  your  evi- 
dent belief  that  I  am  jealous  of  Miss  Halstead's 
professional  prestige.  You  are  quite  mistaken.-  I 
am  not  jealous.  Her  position  on  the  stage  to-day, 
she  owes  entirely  to  me.  Ask  her,  and  she  will  tell 
you  so  herself.  To  further  advance  her  interests, 
I  am  about  to  marry  her.  I  shall  not  abandon  my 
plans.  Perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  it  would 
be  advisable  for  you  to  seek  another  position, 
Crampton.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  such  words  as 
you  have  spoken.  You  are  ungrateful.  You  for- 
get that  you  came  to  me  at  a  time  when  you  were 
making  a  niggardly  pittance  as  tutor  to  an  imbecile 
boy.  You  can  go.  In  fact  I  shall  consider  that 
you  are  now  free." 

"You  will  consider  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied 
Crampton,  quite  as  calmly  as  his  master  had 
spoken,  but  with  a  light  in  his  eyes  that  Reginald 
had  never  seen  there  before.  "  If  I  go,  I  will  have 


Justifying  Crime  187 

your  footsteps  dogged  by  those  whose  work  it  is  to 
prevent  crime.  I  will  tell  every  newspaper  writer 
in  London  what  I  know  of  this  fantastic  evil  story. 
It  shall  point  the  moral  of  ego-mania.  You  will 
never  permit  me  to  go.  I  shall  stay,  and  watch 
you,  in  order  that  no  harm  may  come  to  her. 
Take  my  advice,  and  let  a  sleeping  dog  lie.  Do 
as  I  say — begin  your  next  season  as  you  began 
your  last.  Hope  for  the  best.  London  does  not 
forget  its  favourites  easily.  You  have  failed  once. 
It  will  be  to  the  interest  of  this  loyal  city  to  see 
that  you  do  not  fail  again." 

If  he  could  only  have  yielded  to  the  wisdom  of 
these  words !  Rellerick  was  conscious  of  the 
yearning  to  be  normal  and  self-oblivious.  But  ego- 
mania has  roots  that  entwine  themselves  round  the 
very  entrails  of  the  victim.  Try  as  he  would,  he 
could  see  nothing  but  the  insistently  magnified 
image  of  himself.  He  had  failed,  and  she  had 
caused  his  failure.  He  could  take  no  risks.  He 
must  marry  her  and  remove  her  from  his  path. 
He  would  buy  her  a  big  house,  and  surround  her 
by  servants.  She  should  have  children  to  busy 
herself  with — anything  that  would  leave  him  free 
for  a  continuance  of  the  adulation  of  the  London 
mob,  for  which  his  soul  hungered.  Ego-mania  is  a 
gross  physical  appetite  that  grows  by  what  it  feeds 
upon.  Reginald  had  fed  well,  and  London  had 
plied  him  with  the  food  that  he  must  have.  He 
was  no  longer  able  to  do  without  it.  He  thought 
voluntarily  of  Felicia  and  then — involuntarily,  of 
the  yellow  image  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  That 


i88  His  Own  Image 

reminded  him  ;  he  had  an  appointment  that  after- 
noon with  La  Chinoise.  They  were  to  go  together 
to  Madame  Tussaud's,  and  look  upon  the  waxen 
presentment  of  Dejazet.  He  quite  forgot  Cramp- 
ton,  who  sat  there  watching  him  like  a  Nemesis. 
Recalling  his  utterances,  Reginald  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  man  was  a  trifle  upset  by  his 
experience  on  the  preceding  night.  Possibly,  also, 
he  was  awed  at  the  mere  notion  of  leaving  the 
actor's  service.  Reginald  could  understand  this. 
A  terrible  situation  it  must  be  for  any  man,  accus- 
tomed to  minister  day  by  day  to  his  choice  person- 
ality, to  suddenly  find  himself  cut  away  from  it. 
Reginald  felt  quite  sorry  for  Crampton. 

"Your  threats  are  silly,  my  man,"  he  said.  •' I 
had  really  no  intention  of  giving  you  your  congif. 
Stay  and  watch  me  as  you  say.  But  for  the  future, 
we  will  drop  all  allusions  to  the  unfortunate  image 
at  Madame  Tussaud's,  and  also  to  my  affianced 
wife,  Felicia  Halstead.  I  have  been  foolish  enough 
to  discuss  these  matters  with  you,  and  you  have 
rewarded  me  by  insolence  and  insult.  I  wish  to 
see  no  more  newspaper  clippings  referring  to  these 
events.  I  will  take  care  of  them  later  on.  There 
are  such  things  as  libel  laws  in  England,  I  am 
thankful  to  say." 

The  secretary,  temporarily  awed  by  Reginald's 
grandiloquent  manner,  into  the  subjection  that  was 
almost  second  nature  to  him,  bowed  submissively. 

"  One  thing  I  would  like  to  ask,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  this :  Did  the  woman  with  whom  I  left  you  last 


Justifying  Crime  189 

night  really  know  anything  of  the  mur — of  the 
artist  who  has  interested  you  so  much?" 

He  waited  anxiously.  Reginald  gave  him  a  malig- 
nant look,  as  he  answered,  "  We  will  discuss  the 
subject  no  further.  Please  confine  yourself  liter- 
ally to  your  duties  as  secretary.  As  a  confiden- 
tial adviser  I  find  that  you  are  a  failure,  Crampton. 
You  might  write  a  few  lines  to  Miss  Halstead 
from  me.  Say  that  I  am  very  busy  and  as  happy 
as  it  is  possible  for  me  to  be  during  her  absence. 
Add  that  I  am  hungering  for  her  return,  and  can 
scarcely  wait  the  day  that  brings  her  back  to  Lon- 
don. I  will  sign  the  letter  when  I  return." 

This  parting  shot  completely  satisfied  him.  He 
felt  more  like  himself,  and  less  like  De"  jazet,  than  he 
had  done  for  days.  He  laughed  to  himself  as  he 
heard  Crampton's  melancholy  acquiescence.  After 
all,  Crampton  was  bound  to  obey  him.  He  might 
reason,  and  argue,  and  advise,  and  utter  futile 
threats,  but  he  was  a  paid  satellite,  doing  the  duti- 
ful for  so  much  per  week.  Reginald  was  reduced 
to  further  good  humor  by  the  knowledge  that  the 
morose  Oxonian  was  undoubtedly  interested  in 
Felicia  Halstead.  He  chuckled  at  the  mere  no- 
tion. 

"  If  I  could  only  utter  a  fond  '  Bless  you,  my 
children,'  "  he  thought,  "  and  pack  them  off  to  a 
desert  island  ;  it  would  be  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  that  could  happen  to  me.  If  Felicia  would 
only  take  a  fancy  to  Crampton  !  How  perverse 
women  are.  I  suppose  that  no  force  on  earth — 
nothing  electrical,  mechanical,  or  psychological — 


190  His  Own  Image 

would  ever  induce  Felicia  Halstead  to  see  happi- 
ness in  a  career  as  Mrs.  Crampton.  They  talk  of 
hypnotism.  I  don't  believe  that  Charcot  himself 
could  move  that  woman's  affections  from  me." 

He  sighed.  His  ego-mania  received  no  balm 
from  the  knowledge  that  poor  Felicia  loved  him  so 
devotedly.  It  was  the  obstacle  in  his  path.  He 
could  not  quite  dismiss  from  his  mind  the  notion 
that  the  union  of  Felicia  and  Crampton  would  be 
the  complete  simplification  of  all  his  difficulties. 

He  met  La  Chinoise  in  front  of  the  Exhibition 
building  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  The  courtesan 
had  risen  to  the  occasion,  and  had  garbed  herself 
in  a  manner  unlikely  to  offend  the  fastidious  notions 
of  the  famous  actor.  The  colour  on  her  cheek  was 
less  flamboyant,  and  the  carmine  varnish  that  usu- 
ally cracked  upon  her  lips  was  omitted.  She  wore 
something  black,  elegantly  designed  ;  and  a  chic 
little  hat,  of  Parisian  ingenuity,  appealed  pleasantly 
and  ungaudily. 

"  Mon  petit  Dtjazet"  she  said,  as  she  saw  him 
approach,  and  ran  girlishly  to  meet  him  with  out- 
stretched hands. 

Reginald  smiled  upon  her  almost  sunnily.  She 
was  assuredly  a  comely  woman,  but  slightly  tainted 
by  the  life  that  she  led.  He  bought  the  admission 
tickets  for  the  museum  as  cheerfully  as  though  he 
were  a  light-hearted  Lubin  out  for  a  half-holiday 
with  his  Dulcinea.  Proximity  to  this  woman  was 
very  pleasant.  He  felt  a  keen  appreciation  of 
Dejazet's  artistic  selection.  They  entered  the 
building,  and  went  at  once  to  the  Chamber  of  Hor- 


Justifying  Crime  191 

rors.  The  doleful  Hungarian  band  was  twanging 
out  its  dirge-like  popularities  in  the  other  halls. 
The  usual  mob  of  sight-seers  was  present — sight- 
seers from  Manchester,  sight-seers  from  Liverpool, 
sight-seers  from  Birmingham.  The  absence  of 
Londoners  was  amazing. 

The  actor's  spirits  sank  again  as  La  Chinoise 
steered  him  through  the  ranks  of  staring,  tallowy 
dolls — plastic  monuments  of  human  weakness, 
there  to  teach  no  lesson,  but  merely  to  cater  to  a 
sensational  curiosity.  He  shivered  as  he  heard  her 
comments  upon  the  horrors.  They  were  all  the 
same  to  her — the  Lambeth  poisoner,  and  the  youth 
that  fired  at  Her  Majesty  in  Constitution  Hill  ;  the 
Reading  baby-farmer,  and  the  Blackheath  burglar ; 
Henry  Wainwright,  and  James  Greenacre  ;  Maria 
Manning,  and  Fouquier-Tinville. 

"Des  miserable — tons,"  she  said,  but  her  voice 
was  frivolously  light  and  she  was  enjoying  it  all. 
The  actor  could  not  understand  it.  He  could  not 
comprehend  the  ease  with  which  this  woman  flitted 
from  horror  to  horror  with  her  catalogue  open,  and 
her  curiosity  piqued.  The  dread  feeling  that  had 
overwhelmed  him  at  his  first  visit  was  with  him 
again.  He  could  scarcely  breathe  in  the  close, 
contaminated  air.  To  him,  the  models  standing 
dimly  in  the  semi-obscurity,  were  tangible  ghosts. 
He  inhaled  the  odour  of  the  frowsy  stuffs  they  wore. 
He  shrank  from  their  glassy  eyes.  He  shuddered 
as  he  saw  their  yellow,  smooth  and  polished  fingers, 
nailless  and  menacing.  His  vitality  was  lowered, 
and  the  mockery  of  it  all  overcame  him, 


192  His  O\vn  Image 

"  Let  us  go,  Claire,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  stand  it. 
Let  us  go." 

She  took  his  arm,  and  led  him  almost  by  force 
to  the  pedestal  upon  which  Dejazet  stood.  The 
figure  was  still  the  centre  of  attraction.  It  was 
new  enough  to  capture  the  attention  of  the  crowd. 
Reginald  stood  among  the  people,  and  listened  to 
their  comments.  An  ancient  clergyman,  with  white 
hair,  had  speared  the  opportunity  to  read  a  lesson 
on  the  sinfulness  of  illicit  love,  to  the  gaping 
youths. 

"  Behold,"  he  said,  "  the  end  of  it  all.  This  man, 
with  a  famous  career  in  his  very  grasp,  was  brought 
to  ruin  by  his  own  untrammelled  desires.  Had  he 
married  Mademoiselle  Delaunay  in  the  first  instance, 
and  settled  down  like  a  Christian  to  the  only  asso- 
ciation in  which  there  is  safety,  the  world  might 
now  have  been  ringing  with  his  praises.  Look  at 
him  as  he  stands  there,  a  horrid  example  of  the 
degradation  of  those  that  fail  to  conform  with  the 
laws  that  hold  society  together." 

The  youths  continued  to  gape  at  Dejazet,  but 
they  heard  the  words  of  the  old  minister,  and  they 
were  perhaps  affected.  Reginald  laid  one  of  his 
moist  and  tremulous  hands  upon  the  old  man's 
shoulder. 

"  Suppose,"  he  said,  "  that  it  was  this  desire  to 
keep  the  world  ringing  with  his  praises  that 
prompted  Dejazet  to  kill  Genevieve  Delaunay. 
Suppose  that  she  was  not  the  innocent  victim  that 
the  world  presumes  her  to  be — that  she  was  ready, 
metaphorically,  to  cut  his  throat  and  rear  her  own 


Justifying  Crime  193 

fame  upon  the  spot  where  his  had  stood  ?  What 
then  ?  Is  not  that  a  justification?" 

"  There  is  no  justification,"  replied  the  old  clergy- 
man, glancing  in  astonishment  at  the  eager  face 
half  hidden  by  the  soft  felt  hat  that  Reginald  al- 
ways wore  when  he  came  to  see  his  double.  "'Men 
the  most  infamous  are  fond  of  fame,'  as  Churchill 
said.  He  that  can  succeed  only  without  competi- 
tion is  a  poor  specimen  of  manhood.  But  there  are 
no  records  of  any  rival  in  this  case  of  Dejazet. 
We  have  heard  of  nothing  but  simple  unadulterated 
hatred  of  an  unfortunate,  misguided  girl." 

"  No,  there  are  no  records,"  retorted  Reginald, 
heaving  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Circumstances,  my 
reverend  gentleman,  alter  cases.  You  nearly 
admitted  it." 

The  crowd  had  turned  curiously  towards  the 
speakers.  Anything  for  a  little  sensation,  with 
London  sight-seers.  The  old  clergymen,  however, 
with  a  look  of  distrust  at  Reginald  and  his  compan- 
ion, moved  quietly  away. 

"  I  cried  yesterday  when  I  saw  this  waxen 
Dejazet,"  said  La  Chinoise  artlessly,  "  but  to-day  I 
can  feel  no  sorrow.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  with 
him,  that  I  hold  him  by  my  side  once  more. 
Allans^  mon  petit  Dtjazet.  Let  us  go,  as  it  seems 
to  grieve  you  to  be  here.  You  are  pale  and  trem- 
bling. Without  doubt  it  must  be  terrifying  to  a 
man's  nerves,  to  see  himself  in  wax,  and  hear 
himself  criticised  by  a  mob.  Let  us  go." 

The  actor's  gaze  was  fixed  imploringly  upon  his 
double.  He  felt  that  the  figure  was  real  and  con- 


194  His  Own  Image 

scious,  and  could  see  his  old  love,  La  Chinoise,  as 
she  stood  beside  him.  The  wide-open,  lashless 
eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  directly  at  him.  They 
hypnotised  him.  He  felt  powerless  to  move.  He 
could  have  stood  there  all  day,  imagining  the  senti- 
ments of  the  yellow  monster.  He  was  fascinated 
in  spite  of  himself.  The  real  woman,  however,  was 
asserting  herself.  She  was  swaying  him,  as  she  had 
swayed  De"jazet.  He  fancied  that  he  saw  a  gleam 
of  satisfaction  in  the  eyes  of  the  model,  as  he 
finally  listened  to  her  voice,  and  was  led  away. 

"  I  hate  to  hear  those  comments,"  he  sighed, 
"  now  that  I  understand  Dejazet's  impulses.  He 
was  no  more  of  a  criminal  than — than  I  am.  Is  it 
not  so,  Claire  ?" 

"  Man  petit  Ddjazet,"  she  murmured,  affection- 
ately. It  was  the  stock-in-trade  of  her  remarks. 

Reginald  Rellerick  installed  La  Chinoise  in  a 
little  ornate  villa  situated  in  St.  John's  Wood.  And 
before  the  week  was  over  her  manage  was  firmly 
established.  She  had  taken  her  place  among  the 
doubtful  occupants  of  the  locality.  To  her  he 
confided  the  story  of  his  theatrical  contretemps 
though  he  was  careful  to  keep  from  her  the  fact 
that  he  was  pledged  to  marry  Felicia.  He  listened 
to  her  bright,  Parisian  femininities,  and  a  new 
charm  came  into  his  life — the  charm  that  a  frivol- 
ous, taquinante  woman  can  always  exert  over  a 
morbid  and  sinister  nature. 

La  Chinoise  was  extravagant — as  the  woman 
rescued  from  the  gutter  usually  is.  Reginald 
catered  to  her  extravagance  recklessly.  A  broug- 


Justifying  Crime  195 

ham  was  placed  in  her  stable,  and  she  had  carte 
blanche  with  the  tradespeople  of  the  vicinity.  To 
Crampton  he  said  nothing  of  this  latest  move.  He 
started  to  live  what  novelists  call  "  a  dual  life." 
The  man  who  owns  two  houses  invariably  leads  a 
dual  life — in  novels  and  on  the  stage. 

LaChinoise  understood  the  situation  pretty  thor- 
oughly, and  cleverly  she  endeavoured  to  illumine 
the  life  of  her  protector.  That  she  had  a  genuine 
affection  for  him  was  questionable.  There  are  few 
Felicia  Halsteads  in  this  world,  willing  to  pour  out 
their  lives  at  the  altar  of  a  worthless  egotist.  The' 
illusion,  however,  was  complete.  Reginald  believed 
that  she  loved  him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  felt  an  almost  altruistic  devotion  to  a  woman. 

And  so  events  rushed  on.  To  her,  he  was 
D6jazets.  To  him,  she  was  Dejazet's  selection. 
And  the  model  in  Madame  Tussaud's  was  visited 
frequently.  It  stood  yellow  and  ugly,  on  its 
pedestal,  food  for  the  sight-seers,  at  a  cost  of  one- 
and-sixpence  per  sight-seer. 


Chapter  XIII 

FELICIA  RETURNS  TO  LONDON 

LONDON  again  !  Felicia  Halstead  alighted  from 
the  incoming  train  at  the  Euston' terminus,  and 
looked  delightedly  around.  The  dear  old  brou-ha- 
ha,  the  affable  tumult,  the  pungent  odour  of  an 
intense  population,  and  the  fascinating  sense  of 
bewilderment  that  comes  from  the  multitude,  ap- 
pealed to  her  most  agreeably.  She  shook  her 
skirts  free,  drank  in  a  long  breath  of  the  Euston 
air — as  though  it  were  health-giving  and  pure — and 
— remembered  that  she  was  alone.  She  had  written 
to  Mrs.  Landington  and  to  Reginald  to  tell  them 
that  she  intended,  at  her  mother's  insistence,  to 
prolong  her  stay  in  Liverpool.  And  then,  whimsi- 
cally, she  had  rebelled  at  her  exile  from  what  she 
called  penny-dreadfully  "  life  and  love."  She 
could  endure  ex-Londonization  no  longer.  Fam- 
ily ties  were  very  dear  ;  her  native  county  pos- 
sessed all  those  poetic  associations  that  belong  to 
native  counties.  London,  however,  was  the  only 
place  in  the  world  for  her,  and  after  having  written 
that  she  should  be  absent  for  still  two  weeks,  she 
came  suddenly  back.  Perhaps  there  was  another 
reason  for  her  unexpected  change  of  purpose, 
[196] 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  197 

Reginald's  letters  had  ceased  to  reach  her.  Before 
they  ceased  entirely  they  had  been  eminently  un- 
satisfactory type-written  affairs,  engineered  by 
Crampton,  and  signed  crudely  by  the  great  actor 
himself.  Felicia  felt  pained  at  receiving,  in  reply 
to  her  diary-like  effusions  to  Reginald,  cold,  me- 
chanical-looking, Crampton-made  notes.  The  prac- 
tical ingenuity  that  has  done  away  with  the  mag- 
netic illegibility  of  handwriting  was  undoubtedly 
valuable,  thought  Felicia.  But  after  a  pen-and- 
ink  soul-outpouring  it  was  not  agreeable  to  get  a 
violet-typed  note  beginning  "  Yours  of  yesterday 
to  hand."  Felicia's  soul  rebelled  at  the  labour- 
saving,  poetry-exterminating  sentiment  of  the  age. 
She  tried  her  luck  again,  and  wrote  eight  crossed 
pages  of  frank  confessions.  Another  type-written 
letter  came  to  her,  bearing  all  the  signs  of  Cramp- 
ton's  work,  with  nothing  of  Reginald  but  the  sig- 
nature. To  her  plaintive  remark  about  her  mother's 
anxiety  to  keep  her  in  Lancashire — she  remem- 
bered she  had  worded  it,  "  Ah,  there  is  no  love  like 
a  mother's.  It  is  the  one  unselfish  passion  " — the 
typewriter  replied  :  "  Your  statements  anent  moth- 
er's love  duly  noted.  You  are  quite  right."  Poor 
Crampton  had  tried  to  understand  her  letters. 
Alas !  he  was  lacking  in  sentiment.  Where  was 
Reginald  ?  Surely  her  letters  deserved  a  fate 
other  than  that  of  being  answered  by  a  secretary. 

Felicia's  sensation  of  satisfaction  on  return  to 
the  metropolis,  was  soon  confounded  by  a  feeling 
of  loneliness.  It  was  horrid  to  get  back  unwel- 
comed.  She  had  contemplated  surprising  Mrs. 


198  His  Own  Image 

Landington  and  Reginald,  but  she  was  inclined  to 
wish  that  she  had  been  less  fantastic.  She  shivered 
a  little  as  she  saw  the  crowd  pass  her  by  unnoticed. 
She  envied  the  girls  who  had  travelled  with  her,  as 
she  saw  them  being  embraced  vehemently  on  the 
platform.  She  felt  like  a  foreigner  in  a  strange 
country,  and  as  she  hailed  a  hansom  and  ordered 
her  luggage  deposited  upon  it,  her  temporary  exul- 
tation vanished,  and  she  was  singularly  depressed. 

The  long  ride  to  Netting  Hill  cheered  her.  She 
soon  discovered,  however,  that  it  was  not  always 
advisable  to  "  surprise "  respectable  widows  who 
wear  black  alpaca  dresses,  and  cameo  brooches 
containing  an  extinct  husband's  hair.  Mrs.  Land- 
ington was  unprepared  for  Felicia's  advent.  The 
actress  found  her  asleep  on  a  sofa  in  the  "  best 
parlour,"  clad  in  a  rather  ribald-looking  cotton 
wrapper — too  low  at  the  neck,  and  too  short  at  the 
edge — while  by  her  side  was  a  high  tumbler,  a  bot- 
tle of  "  Scotch  "  that  she  had  invariably  saved  for 
"  medicinal  purposes,"  and  some  soda-water  ;  very 
little  soda-water. 

"  Landy,"  cried  Felicia,  disgusted,  yet  amused, 
"  for  Heaven's  sake,  what  has  happened  ?  Wake 
up — wake  up — it  is  I — Felicia." 

The  respectable  widow  with  the  switchback  em- 
bonpoint^ sat  up  and  endeavoured  to  collect  her 
respectability.  It  is  hard  work  for  a  plump  widow 
to  look  distinctly  proper  in  a  tousled  cotton  toga, 
hair  dishevelled,  and  vis-&-vis  to  what  the  world 
insists  upon  regarding  as  signs  of  revelry.  Mrs. 
Landington  rubbed  her  eyes,  caught  sight  of  her 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  199 

ankles,  and  of  a  certain  red  warmth  of  flannel  pet- 
ticoats not  usually  offered  to  the  public,  and  in- 
stantly— as  a  matter  of  course — fell  back  upon  the 
redeeming  malady  of  the  London  lower  classes. 

"Miss  'Alstead,"  she  said,  with  some  asperity, 
"  and  without  a  word  of  warning.  Really,  miss,  it 
is  the  custom  for  ladies  "  (she  emphasized  the  last 
word)  "  to  write  to  their  'omes,  before  they  arrive. 
Not  that  I  could  ha'  done  much.  I've  'ad  the 
spasms  awful.  I  was  awake  all  night  with  'em,  and 
finally,  I  said  to  myself,  that  it  was  a  case  for  Scotch 
whiskey.  I  'ates  it.  It  regularly  goes  against  me, 
but  'ealth  is  'ealth,  and  I'm  'appy  to  say  that  I  feel 
better." 

Mrs.  Landington  arose,  looking  such  a  ludicrous 
figure  of  respectability  caught  napping,  that  Felicia 
was  obliged  to  turn  aside  her  head  and  laugh.  The 
housekeeper  hastily  removed  various  tell-tale  signs 
— such  as  half-a-dozen  high  tumblers  containing 
the  dregs  of  whiskey  and  water,  plates,  cups  and 
dishes.  Felicia  did  not  see  them.  Had  she  done 
so,  she  would  have  been  tempted  to  believe  that 
the  Landington  had  been  "  at  home "  to  her 
friends — scions  of  the  nobility  of  the  east  end. 
She  straightened  out  mats,  the  demoralization  of 
which  seemed  to  suggest  that  the  housekeeper  and 
her  guests  were  not  unfamiliar  with  the  "  light, 
fantastic  toe."  Then  her  cloak  of  respectability 
was  ready,  and  she  slipped  it  on  without  more 
ado. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  for 
I've  been  as  lonely  as  an  'ermit.  'Aven't  seen  a 


200  His  Own  Image 

soul  since  you  left.  'Aven't  been  outside  the  doors 
of  the  'ouse.  If  you  'adn't  come  back,  I  should 
have  gone  melancholy,  for  by  nature,  I'm  naturally 
lively,  and  fond  of  society." 

Felicia  was  making  herself  slowly  comfortable, 
and  at  the  same  time  giving  her  housekeeper  an 
opportunity  to  recover  her  equilibrium.  Mrs. 
Landington  put  the  whiskey  on  the  sideboard, 
taking  a  final  sip  for  the  last  of  her  "  spasms." 
Then  she  asked  to  be  excused,  and  went  upstairs 
for  the  alpaca  dress,  and  the  cameo  brooch,  with- 
out which  she  was  as  a  fort  without  defences. 

There  were  a  number  of  letters  awaiting  Felicia. 
She  opened  them  slowly,  and  glanced  at  their  con- 
tents. They  all  referred  to  her  last  successful  ap- 
pearance in  Pinerville's  new  play.  Verily  that 
success,  planted  so  recently,  had  ripened  with  great 
rapidity.  The  harvest  seemed  to  be  unlimited. 
Two  letters  contained  offers  of  engagement  in  lead- 
ing stock  companies,  with  comfortable  salary  and 
iron-clad  contract.  She  tossed  them  from  her  con- 
temptuously and  sighed.  The  last  letter  that  she 
opened  caused  her  to  think.  There  comes  a  time 
in  the  life  of  many  a  man — likewise  woman — when 
it  is  noble  and  poetic  to  eschew  the  mercenary,  and 
scoff  sensationally  at  the  sordid  inducements  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence.  But  there  also  comes 
a  moment  when  this  sort  of  nobility  is  inclined  to 
hide  its  diminished  head  ;  when  the  man — likewise 
woman — feels  for  the  first  time  that  there  is 
nothing  particularly  poetical  in  sneering  at  money, 
that  means  independence,  emancipation,  security 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  201 

for  one'self  and  for  one's  dependents.  Felicia 
allowed  the  last  letter  to  drop  to  her  feet.  Her 
eyes  rounded  themselves.  She  had  been  offered 
by  the  principal  theatrical  dabbler  of  London's 
West  End,  a  stellar  engagement  to  last  for  three 
seasons,  at  a  guaranteed  salary  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  per  week.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  !  A  fortune  ! 

There  was  not  the  slightest  change  in  Felicia's 
heart.  But  she  had  just  come  from  her  humble 
home  in  Lancashire,  where  her  mother,  had  it  not 
been  for  her  help,  would  have  been  obliged  to 
"  make  ends  meet  "  on  a  yearly  sum  of  money  that 
was  precisely  the  same  as  what  this  letter  offered 
to  her,  per  week.  She  made  silly  little  calculations 
of  what  she  could  do  with  such  wealth.  She  could 
afford  to  bestow  a  dowry  upon  Floss  and  Edna  when 
her  sisters  married,  and  dowries,  while  not  at  all 
essential  to  a  maiden's  welfare — are  inducements 
to  the  right  man  to  come  forward.  Felicia  felt 
that,  in  her  heart  of  hearts.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  per  week,  for  perhaps  thirty  weeks  of  each 
of  three  years  !  How  they  economized  at  home  ! 
She  recalled  their  teas,  with  seed-cake,  shrimps  and 
lettuce, — the  luxuries  of  the  impecunious  middle 
classes  in  England.  Floss  and  Edna  "  turned  " 
their  dresses  when  the  original  sides  grew  shabby, 
and  her  mother — well,  she  distinctly  remembered 
her  mother's  black  silk  dress,  still  her  "  Sunday-go- 
to-meeting  "  gown,  ten  years  ago.  Felicia  grew 
frightened  at  her  thoughts  ;  she  hid  her  face  in  her 


2O2  His  Own  Image 

hands  as  though  to  shut  them  out.  They  were 
persistent. 

"  Of  course,  when  I'm  married  to  Reginald,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "  I  can  do  a  great  deal  for  them. 
He  is  rich,  and  what  he  gains,  I  gain  also.  I  shall 
be  his  leading  lady,  and  I  shall  act,  and — and — but 
I  shall  be  his  wife,  and  how  could  I  accept  a  sal- 
ary ?  Then,  suppose  a  time  comes  when  I  cannot 
act.  I  want  children  that  will  bind  me  more  closely 
to  him.  If  he  would  only  consent  to  let  me  accept 
this  engagement,  just  for  the  sake  of  the  money,  I 
could  come  to  him  a  rich  woman,  and  I  could  have 
given  my  family  enough  to  make  them  comforta- 
ble. How  I  should  hate  it !  How  I  should  loathe 
it !  How  I  hope  that  he  will  never  consent  to  it ! 
But  it  does  seem  wicked  to  let  such  an  opportunity 
slip  through  one's  fingers.  If  Reginald  had  an  un- 
lucky season,  how  welcome  my  money  would  be  to 
him,  and  how  glad  I  should  be  to  know  that  I  had 
helped  him.  One  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
week.  I  wonder  if  Queen  Victoria  gets  as  much." 

Felicia,  whose  knowledge  of  money  was  of  a  very 
limited  nature,  drew  a  mental  picture  of  another 
Buckingham  Palace  that  she  could  build  for  herself 
and  Reginald,  with  a  special  wing  in  it  for  her 
mother  and  the  girls.  And  she  imagined  them  all 
rising  up,  and  calling  her  blessed.  She  thought  of 
Reginald's  joy  and  gratitude.  It  was  a  tempting 
picture. 

Mrs.  Landington  came  back  to  the  room,  her 
seething  chest  respectably  alpaca'd,  and  the  cameo 
brooch  resting  comfortably  at  the  top  of  the  fleshy 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  203 

toboggan  slide.  The  white  ruching  fortified  her 
neck,  as  usual.  She  was  herself  again. 

"You  must  'ave  luncheon,"  she  said  busily,  "for 
there's  nothing  more  fatiguing  than  a  railway  jour- 
ney. A  nice  bit  of  mutton  stew,  and  a  cup  o' 
strong  tea  will  make  you  as  right  as  a  trivet." 

"  Not  yet,  Landy,"  declared  Felicia  eagerly. 
"  Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Landington  affably — 
the  last  glass  of  whiskey  had  been  very  kind  to  her 
— "  You  want  to  ask  me  about  Mr.  Rellerick. 
Well,  my  dear,  I  'aven't  seen  anything  of  him,  but 
they've  got  a  new  figure  at  Mrs.  Tussor's  wax- 
works, that's  a  speaking  likeness.  I  went  to  see  it 
one  day — by-the-bye,  my  dear,  I  did  leave  the 
'ouse,  but  on  that  occasion  only — and  it  quite  upset 
me.  I  went  with  Mrs.  Jones,  the  'ousekeeper  next 
door,  and  if  she  hadn't  had  a  brandy-flask  with  her 
I  believe  I  should  have  fainted.  Such  a  likeness ! 
It  looked  like  Mr.  Reginald's  corpse.  I  declare 
that  it  made  me  all  of  a  tremble.  I  'aven't  got 
many  nerves  about  my  constitootion,  but  if  I  saw 
a  model  of  myself  perched  up  there  in  that  way,  I 
believe  I  should  go  into  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  of  it,"  murmured  Felicia,  anx- 
iously, "  but  I  didn't  know  it  looked  like  him.  I 
wonder  if  he  has  seen  it.  I  wrote  him  about  it,  for 
I  read  an  account  of  it  in  a  Liverpool  paper.  I  am 
sure  he  must  be  very  annoyed  at  it.  But  perhaps 
you  only  imagine  the  likeness,  Landy.  Probably, 
if  I  saw  it  I  should'nt  detect  any  resemblance." 

"  I  imagine  nothing,  Miss  'Alstead,"  declared  the 


204  His  Own  Image 

housekeeper  majestically,  "  I  went  to  Mrs.  Tussor's 
in  my  sober  senses,  and  I  tell  you  that  the  model 
of  Deejazzy,  as  they  call  'im,  made  me  feel  quite 
sick,  knowing  Mr.  Rellerick  as  I  do.  Whether  he's 
seen  it  or  not,  I  don't  know,  but  he  ought  to  stop 
it.  It  can't  be  pleasant  to  look  like  a  nasty  person 
who  killed  the  girl  he  had  been  keeping  company 
with,  and  her  a-waiting  to  marry  him." 

Felicia  looked  genuinely  disturbed.  She  knew 
Reginald's  impressionable  nature,  and  she  felt  con- 
vinced that  this  model  must  have  exasperated  him. 
And  to  make  matters  worse,  she  had  playfully 
alluded  to  it  in  one  of  her  letters.  Still,  he  was 
an  exclusive  person,  was  Reginald,  and  she  couldn't 
quite  imagine  him  wasting  much  time  among  the 
cheap  wax-works  of  the  Marylebone  Road. 

"What  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about,  Landy," 
said  Felicia,  trying  to  dismiss  the  Tussaud  matter 
from  her  mind,  "  was  this  letter  which  I  have  just 
opened.  A  manager  has  written  to  me  to  say  that 
he  hears  I  am  not  to  be  tempted  by  outside  offers  ; 
that  I  have  been  sought  by  a  number  of  metropol- 
itan gentlemen,  and  that  they  haven't  got  the  cour- 
age to  play  their  best  cards.  He  is  resolved,  he 
says,  to  offer  me  terms  which  no  woman  to-day 
could  afford  to  refuse.  And,"  Felicia  sighed  help- 
lessly, "  he  has  promised  me  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  week,  to  accept  his  engagement." 

Mrs.  Landington  gasped.  At  first  she  was  not 
sure  that  she  had  heard  correctly.  Whiskey  has  a 
way  of  playing  strange  tricks,  even  with  its  accus- 
tomed patrons.  She  repeated  the  amount  incred- 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  205 

ulously,  and  Felicia  nodded  her  head,  and  con- 
firmed it. 

"  One  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  !"  she  exclaimed 
melodramatically,  "  and  you  a  mere  chit  of  a  child. 
It's  positively  sinful  to  give  such  wages  to  theatre 
people,  when  honest  men  with  enormous  families — 
and  the  honester  the  man,  the  more  enormous  his 
family,  I've  always  found — work  for  a  paltry  thirty 
shillings  a  week,  every  day  but  Sunday.  It's  ex- 
travagant. It's — well,  I  can't  believe  it.  In  a 
week,  you'll  earn  more  than  these  honest  men  earn 
in  a  year.  You  can  thank  your  lucky  stars." 

"  That's  precisely  it,  Landy.  I  am  not  sure  that 
Reginald  will  allow  me  to  accept  the  offer.  We 
are  to  be  married  very  soon.  That  is  settled. 
And  he  is  very  peculiar  about  the  theatre.  He 
knows  that  I  hate  it,  and  am  delighted  at  the  idea 
of  escaping  it.  But  in  this  case,  Landy,  which  has 
come  upon  me  so  suddenly,  it  seems  wicked  to 
refuse,  when  I  can  earn  so  much  for  him,  and  for 
my  mother  and  sisters.  I've  seen  them  trying  to 
make  ends  meet,  and  considering  every  sixpence 
before  they  spend  it,  and  here  is  a  flood  of  money 
almost  flowing  at  my  feet.  Don't  you  think  that 
Reginald  will  see  it  in  this  light  ?" 

The  fat  housekeeper  simply  stared  at  the  young 
actress  in  amazement.  Her  veins  were  all  aglow 
with  what  seemed  to  her  a  sort  of  Monte  Cristo 
story.  It  was  a  few  seconds  before  she  was  able 
to  answer. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  she  exclaimed, 
stridently,  "that  you  would  consider  this  man. 


206  His  Own  Image 

He  was  afraid  you'd  set  up  in  opposition  to  him, 
or  he'd  never  have  married  you.  We  argued  that 
out  together,  you  and  I.  It  suited  your  purpose 
then  to  marry  him.  It  was  safer  and  better.  He 
proposed,  as  I  said  he'd  do,  and  you  accepted. 
But  now,  something  new  has  happened.  The  best 
man  on  earth  isn't  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
a  week.  You  could  buy  a  prince  for  less,  if  you 
cared  for  titles,  which  don't  amount  to  much  in  my 
humble  opinion.  Let  Mr.  Rellerick  go,  my  dear 
Miss  'Alstead,  and  if  he  wants  to  marry  you,  when 
you've  made  this  fortune,  all  well  and  good.  That's 
the  way  I  look  at  it." 

Poor  Felicia  !  There  was  no  consolation  to  be 
received  from  her  own  sex.  That  seemed  cer- 
tain. 

"  No,"  she  said  sadly,  "  that  I  would  never  do. 
He  is  dearer  to  me  than  any  money  could  be.  I 
only  care  for  the  money  for  his  sake,  and  for  that 
of  my  family.  My  only  hope  is  that  he  will  see 
how  much  better  it  would  be  for  me  to  take  this 
engagement,  work  for  three  years  to  come  into  the 
possession  of  several  thousand  pounds,  make  my 
people  comfortable  for  life,  and  then  give  myself 
to  him,  not  penniless.  If  he  is  sensible,  he  will 
think  this.  But  if  not — well,  I  will  go  to  my  dear, 
obstinate  Reginald  just  as  I  am,  and  he  will  not 
begrudge  me  the  money  that  his  wife's  relatives 
will  undoubtedly  need." 

Mrs.Landington  lost  her  patience,  her  politeness, 
and  her  usual  sense  of  subservience.  "  Felicia 
'Alstead,"  she  said,  angrily,  "  you're  a  fool,  and 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  207 

you'll  rue  it  to  your  dying  day.  There  aren't  many 
girls  who  get  a  chance  to  make  a  fortune  in  an  easy 
and  ladylike  manner,  without  toadying  to  a  man. 
You  get  the  chance,  and  are  willing  to  throw  it 
away  for  an  actor,  who  has  been  a  good  employer 
to  you,  but  who  won't  pass  his  life  trying  to  make 
you  'appy  when  you're  his  wife.  One  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  a  week  !  And  to  think  that  you  hesi- 
tate. I'm  only  sorry  this  offer  didn't  come  before 
you  met  him  in  Euston  Station,  and  jumped  at  his 
proposal." 

Felicia  caught  her  breath,  in  a  sort  of  sob.  "  It 
would  have  made  no  difference,"  she  said.  •'  I  don't 
care  for  money,  and  I  don't  care  for  fame.  I  am 
simply  struggling  between  selfishness  and  unsel- 
fishness. It  seems  selfish  to  give  this  all  up,  when 
by  a  small  sacrifice  of  my  own  heart's  desire,  I  can 
do  so  much  good,  not  only  for  my  people,  but  for 
Reginald  himself.  I  really  ought,  I  suppose,  to 
postpone  my  marriage  indefinitely,  and  write  him 
in  the  strain  that  *  'tis  best  for  you  and  best  for 
me  !'  But  I  can't  do  it,  Landy.  I  can't  do  it,  and 
I  shan't.  I  am  pledged  to  him.  He  might  think 
that  I  was  trying  to  be  his  rival,  and  that  I  loved 
the  theatre  for  the  theatre's  sake,  as  he  does.  I 
must  ask  his  permission,  and — oh  !  I  know  I'm  a 
fool,  Landy — but  I  do  hope  that  he  will  insist  upon 
my  marrying  him." 

The  actress  took  up  the  letter  that  had  caused 
her  this  riot  of  sensation,  and  read  again  the 
blackly  traced  words  standing  forth  so  unmistak- 
ably upon  the  white  paper.  There  was  no  deny- 


2o8  His  Own  Image 

ing  their  significance.  The  letter  meant  everything 
that  she  had  understood  it  to  mean.  It  was  a  real 
stereotyped  case  of  the  penny-dreadful  "  strife 
between  love  and  duty."  As  Reginald's  leading 
lady  her  salary  had  been  a  small  one — just  enough 
for  her  own  wants,  and  for  a  few  of  those  experi- 
enced by  her  dependents  in  Lancashire.  It  seemed 
strange  to  her  that  any  manager  should  be  sud- 
denly anxious  to  multiply  her  value  by  ten,  when 
she  had  done  so  little  to  warrant  the  multiplica- 
tion. Why,  if  she  were  worth  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  to  the  manager,  had  Reginald  thought 
so  economically  of  her  services  ?  Those  are  the 
questions  that  occur  resentfully  to  every  man  who 
is  confronted  suddenly  by  the  luminous  vision  of 
appreciation.  Felicia,  being  a  woman,  resented 
nothing.  She  merely  thought  it  all  over,  and  pon- 
dered over  the  queries  that  she  was  unable  to 
answer.  She  was  perfectly  well  aware  that  she  had 
not  even  the  faintest  inclination  to  avail  herself  of 
this  golden  opportunity  ;  that  it  was  as  distaste- 
ful to  her  as  it  could  possibly  be  ;  that  the  idea  of 
being  Reginald's  wife,  safe  in  the  harbour  of  her 
husband's  affection,  was  as  precious  to  her  as  ever. 
But  she  had  just  come  from  Lancashire,  and  she 
could  not  forget  the  picture  of  her  mother  strug- 
gling with  gas-bills,  and  water-rates,  and  butchers' 
demands,  and  grocers'  exactions,  with  two  buxom 
girls  on  her  hands,  waiting  to  be  launched  upon  the 
sea  of  life. 

It  made  her  feel  detestably  small  and    selfish. 
They  were  all  making  wedding-presents  for  her  at 


Felicia  Returns  to  London  209 

home,  rejoicing  in  her  happiness,  and  thankful  for 
the  marriage  that  would  give  to  her  the  man  of 
her  heart.  And  suddenly  the  golden  bolt  had 
fallen  at  her  feet,  and  she  was  bound  to  admit  that, 
for  her  mother  and  sisters,  its  value  was  unlimited. 
And  for  Reginald  !  He — good,  unselfish  soul  (so 
she  thought) — was  perfectly  willing  to  link  himself 
with  the  penniless  girl  of  his  choice.  How  much 
better  it  would  be  for  him,  if  she  had  money.  He 
might  at  any  time  lose  his  health  and  his  ability  to 
induce  public  patronage.  He  was  not  wealthy. 
He  lived  extravagantly,  and  spent  every  farthing 
that  he  made.  Would  he  not  feel  more  comfort- 
able if  he  knew  that  there  was  a  cozy  bank-account 
placed  to  the  credit  of  his  wife  ? 

So  she  reasoned,  and  as  each  step  in  her  logic 
showed  her  its  pellucid,  unquestionable  quality,  her 
spirits  sank  and  her  courage  fell.  She  would 
frankly  consult  with  Reginald,  and  she  would  try 
to  influence  him  to  her  way  of  thinking.  It  was 
true  that  she  and  her  housekeeper  had  ignobly 
foreseen  his  proposal  of  marriage,  in  his  unwilling- 
ness to  face  competition.  But  she  never  really 
believed  that  any  such  thought  occurred  to  him 
when  he  had  met  her  on  that  cherished  morning,  in 
Euston  Station,  and  they  had  plighted  their  troth. 
This  was  the  one  little  blur  upon  her  complete 
happiness,  and  she  would  tell  him  all  about  it  some 
day — some  day  when  she  was  his  wife,  and  they 
were  in  a  confidential  mood.  For  Felicia  believed 
that  married  life  was  one  long  and  lovely  vista  of 
confidential  moods. 


210  His  Own  Image 

In  the  meantime  there  was  no  use  perplexing  her 
soul  about  this  merciless  situation.  She  was 
pledged  to  her  word,  at  any  rate,  and  she  liked  to 
remember  that.  If  he  were  willing  to  wait  for  three 
years,  while  she  gathered  in  the  golden  shekels, 
well — she  sighed,  as  she  thought  of  it — she  would 
be  a  martyr  to  duty.  It  would  be  a  martyrdom  at 
which  her  soul  would  ultimately  rejoice.  If  on  the 
other  hand,  he  bade  her  give  it  all  up,  to  be  his 
wife  immediately  as  had  been  arranged,  well — she 
did  not  sigh  this  time — she  would  be  blissfully 
obliged  to  bow  to  the  force  of  inexorable  circum- 
stances. 

How  she  hoped  for  those  inexorable  circum- 
stances !  It  was  not  noble,  perhaps,  to  hope  for 
them,  but  she  was  thankful  for  the  web  that  had 
been  woven  around  her.  She  would  go  at  once  to 
Reginald's  apartments.  She  would  not  sleep  over 
her  doubts  and  her  fears. 

Felicia  sat  down  to  Mrs.  Landington's  conven- 
tional dish  of  glutinous  stew,  with  weak  tea  accom- 
paniment. The  housekeeper  was  highly  displeased 
with  her,  and  endeavoured  between  mouthfuls,  to 
picturesquely  display  the  criminality  of  her  behav- 
iour. But  Felicia,  tired  of  logic,  declined  further 
argument.  When  the  meal  was  over  she  dressed 
herself,  arranged  her  hair  as  Reginald  liked  to  see  it 
arranged,  and  called  a  cab. 


Chapter  XIV 

SHE  "INTERVIEWS"  CRAMPTON 

REGINALD'S  irregular  incomings  and  unex- 
plained outgoings  were  at  first  unnoticed  by  his 
secretary.  His  visits  to  St.  John's  Wood,  deftly 
arranged,  with  all  the  secret  enjoyment  of  clan- 
destine meetings,  did  not  appeal  to  Crampton.  The 
secretary's  mental  opthalmia  was,  however,  soon 
dissipated.  Tell-tale  bills  which  he  was  bound  to 
open,  came  in ;  letters  "  confirming  orders  "  reached 
him ;  there  were  receipts  to  file  away  and  other 
documents,  upon  which  the  ego-maniac  had  scarcely 
reckoned.  The  first  of  these  papers  caused  Cramp- 
ton  to  bound  in  his  chair,  as  though  he  had  been 
suddenly  syringed  with  electricity.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  his  master  had  quietly  married  Felicia 
Halstead,  and  ensconced  her  in  a  "  nest  "  in  St. 
John's  Wood.  The  absurdity  of  this  conclusion 
soon  forced  itself  upon  him.  He  was,  nevertheless, 
unable  to  rest  without  ocular  proof  that  it  was  not 
Felicia  upon  whom  Rellerick  lavished  so  much 
attention.  The  ocular  proof  was  easy  to  obtain. 
A  green  bus  to  the  "  Angel  "  and  a  short  walk 
afterwards,  settled  Mr.  Crampton's  mind.  He  saw 
the  little  ornate  villa  with  his  own  eyes,  and  he 

[211] 


212  His  Own  Image 

saw  La  Chinoise  herself,  clad  in  the  sumptuousest 
of  parvenu  clothes,  stepping  from  its  veranda  into 
her  brougham.  And  Crampton  went  back,  heav- 
ing sighs  of  relief  upon  the  unresponsive  air.  Al- 
though this  was  a  new  complication,  in  an  already 
unduly  complicated  case,  the  secretary  was  thankful 
for  it.  It  meant  breathing  time  ;  a  possible  post- 
ponement of  a  dreaded  denouement  Although,  in 
his  heart  of  hearts,  he  resented  this  fresh  and  das- 
tardly insult  to  Felicia  Halstead,  he  felt  that  it 
might  militate  in  her  favour.  He  had  faith  in  the 
desperate  measures  of  women  like  La  Chinoise.  A 
faint  feeling  of  loyalty — the  loyalty  that  comes  to 
every  Englishman  from  a  long  line  of  ancestors — 
compelled  him  to  conceal  Reginald's  cheap  and 
unromantic  behaviour  from  the  world.  What  a  hit 
this  story  of  the  actor's  new  household  would 
make  in  the  weeklies !  How  the  paragraphers 
would  gloat  over  the  mendacity  of  the  man  who 
had  once  lectured  upon  "  the  beauty  of  the  actor's 
life,"  and  tried  to  convince  a  public  that  the  real 
artist  was  happiest  at  home. 

The  day  after  his  discovery  Crampton  sat  alone, 
in  a  corner  of  Reginald's  sanctum.  He  made  no 
pretence  of  work.  There  were  letters  to  answer, 
letters  to  file  away,  at  least  two  articles  for  maga- 
zines to  be  written,  and  Mr.  Rellerick's  opinion  on 
the  influence  of  the  Greek  drama  to  be  set  forth 
for  a  well-known  weekly.  Crampton  preferred  to 
read.  He  was  anxious  to  study  his  master's  case 
scientifically.  It  was  not  a  medical  volume  that 
he  had  selected,  but  a  stout  book  by  Nordau,  and 


She  "  Interviews"  Crampton      213 

a  chapter  entitled  "  Ego-Mania."  But  from  Nor- 
dau's  generalization  he  could  obtain  no  very  par- 
ticular comfort. 

"  The  ego-maniac,"  he  read,  "  must  of  necessity 
immensely  over-estimate  his  own  importance  and 
the  significance  of  all  his  actions,  for  he  is  only 
engrossed  with  -himself,  and  but  little,  or  not  at  all, 
with  external  things.  He  is,  therefore,  not  in  a 
position  to  comprehend  his  relation  to  other  men 
and  the  universe,  and  to  appreciate  properly  the 
part  he  has  to  play  in  the  aggregate  of  social  insti- 
tutions." 

Crampton  was  so  absorbed  in  his  book  that  he 
failed  to  hear  the  sudden  stopping  of  a  hansom  cab 
at  the  outside  door,  and  the  subsequent  peal  of 
the  door-bell.  He  read  on  and  on,  his  parchment 
face  bent  over  his  book.  It  was  not  until  the 
rustle  of  a  dress,  not  a  yard  from  his  ear,  diverted 
his  attention  from  his  metaphysical  researches,  that 
he  looked  up  and  saw — Felicia  Halstead. 

She  had  rushed  up  stairs  in  joyous  juvenility,  and 
she  had  bounded  into  the  room  like  an  elastic  ball. 
Her  features,  always  mobile,  had  expressed  the 
emotions  of  the  most  adorably  kaleidoscopic  fem- 
ininity. But  now,  as  he  looked  up,  he  saw  that  her 
face  was  blanche  and  surprised,  that  her  hands 
had  fallen  limply  to  her  side.  A  grave  disappoint- 
ment wrenched  the  pleasure  from  her  eyes.  Cramp- 
ton  closed  his  book  hastily. 

"  When  did  you  return,  Miss  Halstead  ?"  he 
asked  agitatedly.  "  In  your  last  letter  you  said 
you  would  not  be  back  for  two  weeks.  I  am  quite 


His  Own  Image 


sure  of  that.  I  —  I  —  could  not  possibly  be  mis- 
taken." 

"  You  were  not  mistaken,"  she  said  with  a  little 
satirical  laugh.  "  You  are  a  good  secretary, 
Crampton.  "  You  know  your  master's  letters  by 
heart.  You  answer  them  so  poetically  that  they 
might  almost  be  addressed  to  you  personally. 
Where  —  where  —  is  Reginald  ?  I  felt  sure  that  I 
should  find  him  here." 

Crampton  indulged  in  his  customary  shuffle,  but 
he  determined  to  be  as  non-committal  as  possible. 
"  Why  should  you  expect  to  find  Mr.  Rellerick  in 
his  apartment,"  he  queried,  "  when  he  could  not 
possibly  be  aware  of  your  return  ?  Had  you  in- 
formed him  of  your  plans,  he  might  possibly  have 
met  you." 

"  Possibly  !"  exclaimed  Felicia. 

"As  it  is  "  —  Crampton  moistened  his  lips,  which 
were  dry  and  feverish  —  "  as  it  is,  I  am  sorry  to  tell 
you  that  Mr.  Rellerick  is  out  of  town  for  a  few 
days.  He  may  be  back  to-day  ;  he  may  be  back 
to-morrow  ;  I  cannot  say.  He  was  a  little  bit  '  run 
down,'  and  felt  that  a  change  of  scene  would  be 
beneficial.  Had  he  known  that  you  were  to  re- 
turn -  '" 

"  Crampton,"  said  Felicia  slowly,  "  where  has 
Reginald  gone  ?  Tell  me  and  I  will  send  him  a 
wire.  I  am  sorry  that  I  came  home  so  suddenly. 
It  has  not  been  as  pleasurable  as  I  expected  it  to 
be.  It  shall  teach  me  a  lesson.  Give  me  Regi- 
nald's address." 

The  mouldy  secretary  was  nonplussed.     A  loyal 


She  "  Interviews"  Crampton      215 

lie  would  do  no  good.  He  sat  silent,  his  heart  op- 
pressed with  pity  for  this  girl.  She  stood  before 
him,  anxiety  in  every  feature,  and  he  felt  that  pre- 
varication was  powerless  to  help  her. 

"  Tell  me  his  address,  Crampton,"  she  cried  im- 
patiently ;  "  he  was  to  remain  in  London  until  I 
returned.  Not  in  one  of  his  letters  did  he  speak 
to  me  of  feeling  out  of  sorts,  or  of  going  away  for 
a  holiday." 

"  Still  " — Crampton  decided  to  be  on  the  safe 
side,  "  there  is  no  use  concealing  from  you  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Rellerick  is  out  of  sorts.  I  have  been 
much  worried  about  him.  I — I — even  now — I  am 
trying  to  diagnose  his  case." 

Felicia  trembled.  This  was  an  unexpected  blow. 
Her  return  to  London  had  not  surprised  Reginald. 
The  surprise  was  all  on  her  side. 

"  My  poor  Reginald  !"  she  murmured.  "  I  knew 
nothing  of  this,  Crampton  ?  Why  don't  you  ex- 
plain yourself  ?  Why  do  you  sit  there,  parrying  all 
my  questions,  when  you  could  tell  me  everything 
and  set  my  mind  at  rest  in  a  minute.  It  is  not  like 
you.  It  is  cruel.  It  is  unkind." 

Felicia's  perplexity  resolved  itself  into  tears. 
She  sat  down  and  cried  from  sheer  vexation  and 
alarm.  The  sight  of  Felicia's  grief  lacerated  poor 
Crampton's  heart.  He  tried  to  think  of  some  con- 
soling remark.  He  conjured  his  brain  for  balm. 
The  more  she  cried  the  more  perturbed  he  grew. 
Resentment  at  Rellerick's  behaviour  soon  came 
uppermost  in  his  mind.  Still  he  could  think  of  no- 


216  His  Own  Image 

thing  to  say,  and  the  more  he  tried  to  speak  the 
more  hopelessly  tongue-tied  he  felt. 

Felicia  arose  in  stormy  anger.  "  You  watch  me 
as  though  you  enjoyed  my  sorrow,"  she  said  furi- 
ously. "  I  will  not  be  treated  in  this  way.  You 
are  keeping  something  from  me,  and  I  am  deter- 
mined that  I  will  know  everything.  He  is  not 
seriously  ill,  is  he,  Crampton  ?  Tell  me  at  once. 
If  you  don't,  I  will  scream  and  alarm  the  servants. 
Tell  me.  Tell  me.  Tell  me." 

She  went  to  him  and  taking  his  arm,  she  squeezed 
it  until  he  winced  with  pain.  Crampton  realized  the 
fact  that  Felicia  was  growing  hysterical.  He  had, 
as  she  said,  parried  her  questions. 

"  Mr.  Rellerick  is  not  seriously  ill,"  he  said,  walk- 
ing to  the  other  end  of  the  room  so  as  to  avoid  as 
much  as  possible  the  spectacle  of  her  anxious  face. 
"  He  has  been  very  much  upset.  It  is  an  imaginary 
ailment — one  that  it  would  be  no  use  consulting  a 
physician  about.  The  truth  is,  Miss  Halstead,  that 
he  has  been  foolish  enough  to  worry  himself  about 
a  figure  in  Madame  Tussaud's  exhibition  that 
strongly  resembles  him.  It  is  the  figure  of  a  mur- 
derer. He  has  been  so  much  affected  by  it  that  he 
has  even  endeavoured  to  find  excuses  for  this 
murderer,  whose  likeness  he  bears.  I  can't  quite 
understand  his  sentiments.  I  have  tried  to  do  so. 
He  seems  to  grow  worse." 

"  Poor  Reginald  !"  sighed  Felicia,  in  keen  distress. 
"I  might  have  known  that  a  man  of  his  artistic 
temperament  would  be  haunted  by  this  singular 
coincidence.  Can't  something  be  done  ?  Cannot 


"  Interviews  "  Crampton      217 

he  bring  influence  to  bear  upon  these  wax-work  peo- 
ple, and  induce  them  to  withdraw  the  model  ?  It 
seems  simple  enough.  They  are  not  in  existence 
to  insult  the  public,  but  to  amuse  it." 

Crampton  shook  his  head.  "  Mr.  Rellerick 
wouldn't  call  attention  to  his  vexation,"  he  said, 
"  He  feels  it  too  keenly." 

"  And  he  has  left  London  to — to — try  and  forget 
it?" 

Crampton  jumped  at  the  suggestion.  It  was  a 
perfect  fit  for  the  occasion.  He  nodded  in  acqui- 
escence. 

"  And  where  has  he  gone  ?"  she  persisted. 

"  He  did  not  tell  me,"  the  secretary  replied,  as 
though  pleading  for  mercy.  "  I  swear  to  you, 
Miss  Halstead,  that  he  did  not  tell  me.  Not  by 
one  word  did  he  indicate  his  whereabouts.  And  I 
tell  you  that  he  may  be  back  at  any  moment.  Be- 
lieve that  I  am  speaking  the  truth." 

Felicia's  feminine  intuition  read  Crampton  like  a 
book.  She  looked  him  through  and  through.  She  de- 
tected the  grain  of  loyalty  for  his  master,  that  still 
remained.  This  would  have  pleased  her  at  any 
other  time.  It  exasperated  her  under  these  cir- 
cumstances. 

"  He  did  not  tell  you,"  she  remarked  furiously, 
"  no,  he  did  not  tell  you.  But  you  know  !  I  am 
willing  to  swear  that  you  know.  He.  is  not  in  a — " 
she  hated  to  say  it — "  in  a — "  the  word  choked  her 
— "  sanitarium." 

The  secretary  looked  at  her  bewildered.  The 
very  question  showed  that  she  had  analysed  Regi- 


2i8  His  Own  Image 

nald's  moods  far  more  surely  than  he  had  done. 
And  he  wished  at  that  moment  that  he  could  have 
answered  her  in  the  affirmative.  It  would  have 
been  painful,  but  it  would  have  been  a  relief. 

"  He  is  not  in  a  sanitarium — as  far  as  I  know," 
Crampton  responded.  "  Mr.  Rellerick,  as  I  told  you, 
may  return  at  any  moment.  Miss  Halstead,"  here 
he  changed  his  tone  to  one  of  extreme  deference 
and  humble  suggestion,  "  you  are  young  and  you 
have  a  future.  Be  advised  by  me — and  I  am  old 
enough  to  be  your  father.  Do  not  marry  Reginald 
Rellerick." 

Felicia  started  up,  enveloped  in  her  indignation. 
"  You  are  going  too  far,  Mr.  Crampton,"  she  said. 
"  Really  the  position  of  a  secretary  should  be  lim- 
ited. I  assure  you  that  I  shall  inform  Mr.  Rellerick 
of  your  behaviour.  It  is  rank  disloyalty." 

"  It  is  not,"  said  Crampton.  He  was  wound  up 
now.  The  winding  up  of  Crampton  was  not  a  facile 
task.  "  It  is  not  rank  disloyalty.  You  can  tell  him 
what  I  say,  Miss  Halstead.  I  am  perfectly  willing 
that  you  should  do  so.  Mr.  Rellerick  knows  my 
views  on  the  subject.  I  have  already  made  them 
quite  clear  to  him.  If  you  marry  him,  you  will  rue 
it,  and — "  he  thought  this  was  a  strong  card  to  play 
— "  he  will  rue  it  as  well." 

This  finale  brought  Felicia  to  tears  again.  She 
sobbed  so  convulsively  that  the  warm,  womanly 
heart  of  the  secretary  was  crushed.  He  sat  there 
in  agony  looking  at  her.  He  longed  to  take  her  in 
his  arms — the  arms  that  were  old  enough  to  belong 
to  her  father — and  comfort  her.  Why  was  he  sere, 


She  "Interviews"  Crampton       219 


and  why  was  he  fifty,  to  still  feel  the  outrageous 
blood  of  something-and-twenty  still  avalanching 
through  his  veins  ?  Crampton  was  ashamed  of  him- 
self, and  his  tortured  brain  asked  him  if  it  was  really 
pure  unselfishness  that  prompted  him  to  warn  this 
girl  against  a  marriage  with  the  ego-maniacal  actor. 
And  while  his  heart  was  still  pumping  the  red  tor- 
rent through  his  body,  he  could  not  answer  the 
question  satisfactorily.  He  felt  that  he  was  deceiv- 
ing himself.  When  he  had  grown  cool  again,  and 
had  forced  himself  to  look  tamely  at  this  woman  in 
distress,  he  knew  that  it  was  genuine  unselfishness. 
If  he  never  saw  her  again,  he  would  still  love  to 
warn  her  against  a  union  with  the  ego-maniac.  If 
he  knew  that  she  would  give  herself  to  the  first  man 
that  passed  in  the  street,  he  would  still  persist  in 
trying  to  prevent  her  from  wedding  this  actor  who 
looked,  and — he  believed — felt,  like  Dejazet  the 
murderer. 

"  I  don't  mind  your  saying  that  I  shall  rue  it," 
fretted  poor  Felicia,  "  because  you  don't,  and  can't 
know  me.  But — but — why — why  do  you  say  that 
my  Reginald  will  rue  it  ?  I  never  before  thought 
you  were  so  cruel,  Mr.  Crampton." 

The  secretary  was  touched.  He  wished  that  he 
was  safely  away  from  the  whole  unfortunate  affair. 
It  was  a  harsh  fate  that  had  mingled  him  with  it. 

He  answered  evasively :  "  He  is  a  man  of  moods, 
which  change  like  the  colours  of  a  chameleon.  He 
is  nervous,  excitable,  unstrung.  You  are  not  afraid, 
because  you  think  that  you  can  rectify  all  this. 
You  will  not  succeed,  Miss  Halstead.  Therefore  I 


220  His  Own  Image 

say  that  you  will  be  sparing  yourself  much  wretch- 
edness if  you  take  my  advice." 

Felicia  dried  her  eyes.  She  felt  weak  and  stupid. 
Yet  she  reflected  that  circumstances  were  relent- 
lessly pointing  her  out  the  path  of  duty.  She 
would  never  give  up  Reginald.  Duty  or  no  duty 
she  would  be  his  wife.  Nothing  should  prevent 
that.  But  was  not  Reginald's  apparent  indisposi- 
tion a  very  strong  plea  in  favor  of  her  acceptance 
of  the  princely  one  hundred  and  fifty  per  week  for 
three  years  ?  Might  he  not  have  lived  through  his 
sorrowful  imaginings  by  that  time  ?  Surely  his  con- 
sent would  not  be  withheld. 

"  Mr.  Crampton,"  she  said  quietly,  after  a  pause 
of  five  minutes  that  seemed  like  five  hours,  "  I  will 
confide  in  you.  You  have  been  cruel,  and  insolent, 
and  merciless,  but  still  you  know  Reginald,  and 
you  appear  at  the  present  time  to  be  prodigal  of 
advice.  When  you  suggest  that  I  break  off  my 
engagement,  you  talk  futile  nonsense.  I  would 
sooner  die.  That  sounds  rather  radical,  doesn't  it, 
but  I  assure  you  that  it  is  quite  true.  I  came  here 
to-day  to  see  Reginald,  and  to  ask  him  for  counsel. 
I  have  received  an  offer  such  as  I  never  imagined 
would  have  befallen  me,  had  I  been  a  Bernhardt  or 
a  Duse.  I  knew  I  was  in  demand,  but  that  fact 
scarcely  interested  me.  A  manager  has  offered  me 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  per  week  for  three 
years,  and  I  want — at  least  I  intend  to  ask — Regi- 
nald to  allow  me  to  accept.  We  can  wait  three 
years,  and  then  marry,  when  I  shall  have  some 
money,  and  my  family  will  be  provided  for." 


She  "  Interviews  "  Crampton      221 

Crampton  surveyed  her  curiously.  Her  strange 
devotion  to  the  ego-maniac  puzzled  him.  He  knew 
all  that  philosophers  had  said  about  the  eccentri- 
cities of  woman,  but  try  as  he  would  he  could  not 
fathom  Felicia's  attachment  to  Reginald  Rellerick. 
The  actor  was  not  particularly  young ;  his  ego- 
mania had  almost  stamped  itself  upon  his  face,  until 
his  once  regular  features  were  simply  a  reflection 
of  his  unlovely  nature  ;  he  had  none  of  the  quali- 
ties that  women  were  supposed  to  love.  And  yet 
this  girl,  young,  lovely,  adorable,  amiable,  and 
gifted  was  willing  to  sacrifice  herself,  her  fame,  and 
her  family,  for  his  possession.  Crampton  put  her 
metaphorically  beneath  the  microscope,  and  looked 
at  her  as  though  he  were  Grant  Allen  analysing  an 
ichneumon  fly  or  a  Colorado  beetle. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Halstead,"  he  said  at  last,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  listening  to  his  own 
voice,  reproduced  by  a  phonograph,  "  Fame  is  a 
wonderful  thing,  and  only  foolish  poets  call  it  barren 
and  ephemeral.  It  appeals  to  men,  because  it  brings 
not  only  empty  glory,  but  substantial  wealth.  I 
can  quite  understand  that  your  real  lover  is  dearer 
to  you  than  mere  glory.  But  here  is  an  offer  that 
means  a  competence  for  you,  with  fame  at  the  same 
time.  You  cannot  seriously  hesitate.  You  must 
accept  this  offer.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  go  back 
home  and  instantly  notify  your  manager  that  you 
agree  to  his  terms." 

His  voice  squeaked  phonographically.  He  could 
almost  hear  a  br-r-r  as  he  spoke  the  final  words. 

"  Then  you  think  Reginald  will  agree  to  it  ?" 


222  His  Own  Imgae 

Felicia  said,  and  she  could  not  suppress  a  mournful 
intonation  as  she  thought  how  horribly  easy  it  was, 
and  how  readily  her  suggestion  could  be  carried 
out. 

"  Your  Reginald  will  not  consent,"  cried  Cramp- 
ton  harshly.  "  Most  assuredly  he  will  not  consent. 
He  will  hold  you  to  your  promise.  At  the  end  of 
three  years  when  you  are  famous  and  wealthy  he 
would  not  want  you.  He  would  not  then  marry 
you  if  you  brought  him  a  million.  He  refused  the 
Countess  of  Dwight,  who  was  rolling  in  wealth. 
She  was  deeply  in  love  with  him,  and  he  would  not 
listen  to  her." 

Felicia  clasped  her  hands  rapturously,  as  a  six- 
teen-year-old school-girl  might  do,  when  the  gay 
cavalier  upon  whom  her  fancy  has  rested  waves  his 
hands  to  her,  as  he  prances  past  the  door  of  her 
seminary.  Felicia  heard  Crampton's  words  with  a 
sensation  of  voluptuous  joy,  that  the  poor  secretary 
would  have  been  fiercely  unwilling  to  induce. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  if  he  will  not  consent,  that  ends 
it.  The  offer  is  as  good  as  though  it  had  been  unmade. 
What  you  tell  me  so  angrily,  Mr.  Crampton,  is  the 
sweetest  news  I  could  hear.  I  shall  put  the  ques- 
tion to  him,  for  I  am  determined  that  I  will  do  my 
duty.  Surely  Reginald  will  understand  why  I  ask 
his  advice  !" 

Crampton  lost  his  patience,  and  seeing  how 
vainly  he  had  laboured,  he  resolved  to  pull  down 
this  insensate  girl's  hope  with  one  mighty  tug. 
"  Mr.  Rellerick,"  he  said,  "  will  never  consent  to  this 
engagement,  because  he  would  fear  you  as  a  rival, 


She  "  Interviews  "  Crampton       223 

and  while  your  name  was  stamping  itself  upon  the 
public,  he  would  be  gradually  effaced.  I  am  tell- 
ing you  the  truth,  Miss  Halstead." 

Felicia  laughed.  She  felt  light-hearted  and  al- 
most gay.  Perhaps  Crampton  spoke  the  truth,  but 
it  was  a  truth  that  brought  no  gloom  to  her  heart. 
If  Reginald  were  afraid  of  her  as  a  rival,  she  felt 
glad  that  she  had  artistic  qualities  enough  to  in- 
duce such  a  sentiment.  She  thanked  heaven  for 
her  gifts,  if  she  had  any,  inasmuch  as  they  were  the 
means  of  linking  her  to  the  man  she  loved.  Don't 
think  that  Felicia  was  a  fool.  She  was  merely  ar- 
dently in  love  with  a  worthless  object,  and  if  you 
have  never  heard  of  the  blindness  that  accompanies 
such  a  condition,  then  you  have  come  across  very 
few  romantic,  unreasoning  women. 

"  You  are  telling  me  the  truth,  and  I  am  satisfied 
with  it,"  she  murmured.  "  You  have  done  what 
you  perhaps  consider  you  were  called  upon  to  do, 
Crampton.  I  shall  not  take  your  advice.  I  shall 
say  to  Reginald,  '  Please  let  me  accept  this  engage- 
ment. It  will  be  best  for  you  and  best  for  me." 
Oh,  I  shall  urge  it  seriously,  Crampton.  I  shall, 
indeed.  My  people  at  home  are  greatly  in  need 
of  money,  and  it  will  be  unpleasant  for  me  to  ask 
it  of  my  husband — my  husband,"  she  repeated, 
savouring  the  cherished  words.  "  But  if  he  refuses, 
I  shall  marry  him  as  soon  as  he  likes,  and  not  fear 
the  result." 

Crampton's  head  was  bowed  in  anguish.  He 
felt  that  he  had  clumsily  muddled  the  whole  affair. 
Had  he  possessed  any  eloquence  he  could  surely 


224  His  Own  Image 

have  convinced  this  usually  sane  girl  of  her  folly. 
But  he  had  angered  her,  insulted  her,  spoken 
harshly  to  her,  brought  her  to  tears — he  saw  them 
now  dripping  from  her  eyes — and  he  had  simply 
led  her  to  her  fate. 

He  was  desperate.  "  I  shall  be  near  you,  he 
said  at  last,  inanely.  "  I  shall  be  near  you.  No 
harm  shall  come  to  you.  You  will  trust  me,  will 
you  not,  Felicia  ?" 

"  Miss  Halstead,"  she  corrected,  imperiously. 
"  This  interview  has  not  changed  our  relations,  Mr. 
Crampton.  You  will  notice  that  I  call  you  Mr. 
Crampton  and  not — " 

She  wondered  what  his  name  was.  A  slight 
smile  twined  around  her  lips  as  she  reflected  that 
it  was  probably  Ebenezerr  or  Thomas,  or,  more  likely 
still,  James.  He  looked  a  James.  He  had  James 
indelibly  marked  on  his  person.  Cramoton,  how- 
ever, declined  to  come  to  her  aid. 

She  continued  :  "  Whatever  your  Christian  name 
may  be,  I  do  not  use  it.  As  for  your  promise  to 
stay  near  me,  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  not  need  your 
services.  I  imagine  that  no  harm  can  come  to  me 
when  I  am  the  wife  of  the  man  I  love.  Should 
any  harm  come  at  that  time  I  shall  welcome  it." 

She  tinkled  with  sarcastic  laughter.  He  merely 
echoed  the  words  "  welcome  it." 

"  In  the  meantime,"  said  Felicia,  surprised  how 
easy,  and  how  not  unpleasant  it  is  to  be  unkind 
and  imperial  (it  is  wonderful  how  quickly  the  sad- 
istic taste  for  wounding  other  people's  feelings  is 
acquired)  «'  in  the  meantime,  I  shall  ask  you  to 


She  " Interview's"  Crampton       225 

wire  as  soon  as  Regi — Mr.  Rellerick,  returns  from 
this  strange  vacation,  of  which  you  decline  to  tell 
me  anything.  I  shall  expect  to  hear  from  you  as 
soon  as  he  appears.  Until  then  I  shall  not  see  you. 
Good-day,  Mr.  Crampton.  No,  do  not  trouble," 
as  he  moved  towards  the  door  to  accompany  her 
down  stairs.  "  I  know  the  way.  I  shall  walk  home. 
The  weather  is  pleasant.  Good-morning,  Mr. 
Crampton." 

And  Crampton,  as  soon  as  he  had  heard  the 
closing  of  the  outside  door,  did  what  he  had  not 
done  for  years — since  the  first  of  his  old  Oxford 
days,  when  he  was  young,  and  emotional,  and  easily 
impressed.  He  wept. 


Chapter  XV 

THE   FLESH   AND   THE   WAX 

FELICIA  HALSTEAD'S  ingenuously  uncultured 
mind  had  always  revelled  in  Madame  Tussaud's 
wax-works.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  may 
be  termed  naturally  uneducated.  She  had  fre- 
quently enjoyed  a  contemplation  of  the  yellow,  in- 
artistic mockeries  that  seem  to  parody  and  cheapen 
the  noble  art  of  sculpture.  She  appreciated  the 
impudent  figures  in  the  Marylebone  Road  collec- 
tion, for  the  sake  of  the  gaudy  clothes  they  wore. 
The  more  clothes  she  inspected,  the  more  com- 
plete was  her  appreciation.  She  liked  to  wonder 
how  much  Isabella  of  Valois  paid  for  her  gown, 
and  to  picture  Catherine  of  Arragon  indulging  in 
the  vulgar  modern  pastime  of  "  shopping."  She 
was  interested  in  the  dresses  of  Bloody  Mary  and 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  she  liked  surreptitiously  to 
lift  the  gowns  of  the  models,  in  order  to  discover 
if  Philippa  of  Hainault  and  Berengaria  wore  under- 
clothes. The  details  of  the  multi-colored  exhibi- 
tion were  what  she  liked,  and  what  most  of  its 
patrons  like.  The  high  and  mighty  object  of 
education  which  it  professes,  was  totally  ignored 
by  Felicia.  She  had  studied  the  lives  of  the  Kings 

[226J 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  227 

and  Queens  when  at  school.  It  was  a  satisfaction 
to  see  them  modelled  in  wax.  She  believed  im- 
plicitly in  the  portraits,  and  if  anybody  had  told 
her  that  by  boiling  down  Richard  I,  it  would  be 
possible  to  trot  him  forth  as  Gladstone  or  Disraeli, 
she  would  have  laughed  scornfully.  It  is  lucky 
that  the  percentage  of  sceptics  in  the  world  is  a 
small  one — lucky  for  trade,  lucky  for  art,  lucky  for 
the  world  itself.  Felicia  Halstead  was  one  of  the 
amiably  ordinary  women  for  whom  the  amusement 
caterers  work.  Such  women  simplify  the  labours  of 
the  entertainers.  The  success  of  Tussaud's  is 
probably  due  to  the  fact  that  it  appeals  exclusively 
to  the  ordinary. 

Felicia  took  Mrs.  Landington  with  her  to  see 
the  figure  that  had  so  strangely  affected  Reginald 
Rellerick,  and  she  started  for  the  exhibition  in  any- 
thing but  a  holiday  frame  of  mind.  It  seemed  odd 
to  her  to  set  out  for  her  cherished  wax-works  in  a 
mournful  mood.  The  bag  of  chocolate  creams  that 
invariably  accompanied  her  (for  it  is  always  pleas- 
ant to  middle-class  amusement-seekers  to  punctuate 
sensations  with  sweetmeats)  was  omitted.  Felicia 
dragged  Mrs.  Landington  from  her  household 
duties,  and  plunged  with  her  into  the  wax-work 
abominations  of  the  bus-riddled  thoroughfare. 

The  young  actress  felt  melancholy  and  oppressed. 
Her  interview  with  Crampton  had  pained  her,  and 
his  strange  information  that  her  actor  was  away 
from  London,  without  plans,  and  without  address, 
appealed  to  her  as  inexplicably  ominous.  Mrs. 
Landington  had  heard  the  news  with  a  series  of 


228  His  Own  Image 

"  Well,  I  nevers  !"  that  seemed  to  insinuate  her 
black-alpaca  incredulity.  She  hoped  that  every- 
thing would  end  well,  but — she  doubted  it.  The 
prospect  of  possible  misery  is  always  inexpressibly 
dear  to  women  of  Mrs.  Landington's  chaste  and 
usual  category. 

Felicia  paced  through  the  various  rooms,  silently, 
but  obviously  distressed.  Her  Kings  and  Queens 
irritated  her.  She  felt  inclined  to  regard  them  as 
interlopers.  Their  aspect  was  corpsey,  and  she 
wondered  how  they  could  ever  have  entertained 
her.  She  knew  them  by  heart,  and  they  were  quite 
unchanged,  save  that  their  clothes  looked  rustier 
and  more  dust-covered.  John,  who  signed  the 
Magna  Charta,  seemed  to  be  running  to  seed,  and 
Henry  VIII.  to  be  resting  upon  his  sextuply  con- 
jugal laurels  in  a  sort  of  mildewed  atmosphere. 
She  would  not  allow  the  buxom  housekeeper, 
anxious  to  get  the  most  for  her  shilling's-worth,  to 
consult  her  catalogue.  She  tore  her  past  the 
groups,  until  the  cameo  brooch  at  the  top  of  the 
fleshly  toboggan-slide  heaved.  They  all  vexed  her. 
She  was  there  to  see  one  particular  figure,  and  to 
get  at  it  she  had  to  wade  through  Geoffrey 
Chaucers  and  John  Wycliffes  and  Cardinal  Wol- 
seys  and  Oliver  Cromwells.  They  were  all  in  the 
way — all  blocking  her  path,  there  so  placidly  erect 
and  so  uncompromisingly  rigid. 

Yet  when  she  reached  the  Chamber  of  Horrors, 
and  was  pushed  into  it  by  the  crowd  of  hungry 
sensation-seekers,  who  had  accepted  the  roomsful 
of  good  and  illustrious  folks  as  a  Jwrs  cfoeuvre  to 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  229 

the  delightful  criminals,  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  find 
Dejazet.  She  disliked  the  idea  of  viewing  Regi- 
nald's alleged  double  before  she  had  seen  the  actor 
himself.  She  had  returned  to  him  after  a  long 
absence.  It  seemed  horrid  to  seek  the  wax  before 
she  had  found  the  flesh.  Felicia  was  slightly  super- 
stitious. Before  she  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the 
Chamber  of  Horrors,  she  regretted  her  visit  as 
thoroughly  as  Reginald  had  done,  on  the  eventful 
morning  when  he  had  first  looked  upon  Dejazet. 

"We'll  go,  Landy,"  she  said,  quickly.  "  I  don't 
want  to  see  this  model.  The  idea  frightens  me. 
I  don't  know  why  I  came.  Come.  We  will  re- 
turn." 

But  the  housekeeper  had  been  permitted  to  do 
scant  justice  to  the  crowned  heads,  and  had  not 
the  slightest  intention  of  ignoring  the  criminals. 
She  said  simply,  but  very  decidedly  :  "  I  shall  stay, 
my  dear,  now  that  I  am  here.  If  you  don't  wish  to 
wait,  I  will  not  detain  you." 

Felicia,  the  unimaginative  Felicia,  had  worked 
herself  up  into  such  an  excitement  that  she  was 
literally  unable  to  return  by  herself.  She  dreaded 
repassing  those  quaint,  immovable  men  and  wo- 
men on  their  pedestals.  So  she  resolved  to  see  the 
thing  through  to  the  bitter  end,  and  taking  a  light 
hold  of  Mrs.  Landington's  cape,  she  followed  that 
immaculate  matron  in  childlike  obedience. 

The  edge  had  worn  off  Dejazet's  novelty,  and 
the  crowd  had  other  enticements.  The  tide  of  sin 
had  washed  in  new  candidates  for  admiration.  One 
cannot  even  be  a  pinnacled  murderer,  undisturbed 


230  His  Own  Image 

for  very  long.  The  affable  youths,  the  giggley 
girls,  the  boiled-mutton  matrons,  and  the  frolicsome 
fathers  all  edged  for  the  latest  inducements — a 
precocious  child  who  had  stabbed  her  baby  brother, 
and  a  prominent  physician,  whose  guilty  practice 
in  London's  Mayfair  region  had  won  him  notoriety. 
Felicia  and  Mrs.  Landington  left  these  titbits  for 
future  reference.  The  young  actress  had  been 
forced  by  the  mob  to  relinquish  her  grip  upon  the 
housekeeper's  cape.  She  became  separated  from 
her,  and  unwilling  to  walk  about  alone,  in  her 
wrought-up  condition,  she  sat  upon  the  first  bench 
she  found,  and  determined  to  rest  for  a  short  time 
and  recover  the  energy  which  she  felt  that  she 
needed  for  an  inspection  of  Dejazet. 

There  was  a  wax  figure  in  front  of  her,  but  she 
felt  too  dejected  to  look  at  it.  She  leaned  her 
head  upon  her  hands,  and  only  the  feet  of  the 
model  appeared  to  her.  The  crowd  ebbed  and 
flowed.  Men  and  women  drifted  past  her,  chat- 
tering idly  and  volubly,  dipping  into  paper  bags 
containing  the  necessary  sweets,  and  enjoying 
themselves  in  the  stodgy  and  slouchy  way  peculiar 
to  the  English  crowd.  She  thought  of  the  vaunted 
"educational  usefulness  "  of  Tussaud's,  and  smiled. 
How  the  Londoners  loved  to  furnish  excuses  for 
their  eccentric  pastimes!  Nothing  but  the  lack 
of  a  semi-religious,  semi-educational  pretext,  is  re- 
sponsible for  the  omission  of  the  bull-ring  from  the 
ranks  of  metropolitan  entertainments.  Felicia  felt 
better,  as  she  sat  there  without  looking  at  the 
"  sights."  The  almost  apoplectic  effect  of  wading 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  231 

through  those  lines  of  rigid  dolls  wore  gradually 
off. 

She  began  to  feel  once  more  the  desire  to  be 
confronted  with  Reginald's  Rellerick's  double — the 
object  of  her  visit  to  Tussaud's.  Her  eyes  which 
had  listlessly  rested  upon  the  feet  of  the  model 
before  which  she  had  cast  herself,  were  energetic- 
ally uplifted.  Then  Felicia  arose,  and  unable  to 
overcome  her  feelings,  uttered  a  slight  shrill  cry 
of  surprise.  The  feet  at  which  she  had  gazed 
belonged  to  Reginald's  double.  She  had  been  sit- 
ting apathetically  in  front  of  Dejazet.  Felicia 
rubbed  her  eyes,  and  stared  at  the  doll.  A  slight 
frisson  ran  through  the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  felt 
as  she  used  to  feel  when  she  read  ghost  stories,  and 
anecdotes  with  a  supernatural  flavor. 

It  was  Reginald — horribly  and  distinctly,  but 
with  an  evil  insinuation  that  alarmed  her.  The 
expression  in  Dejazet's  face  was  bad,  but  it  was  an 
expression  which  she  had  seen — she  must  have 
seen  it,  for  it  seemed  so  familiar — in  that  of  her 
lover.  The  glass  eyes  that  stared  at  her  so  emptily, 
had  nevertheless  something  of  the  look  she  had  de- 
tected in  Reginald's  that  morning  when  he  had  told 
her  that  she  was  trying  to  supplant  him.  Dejazet's 
mouth  was  slightly  twisted  with  cruelty,  and  his 
lips  were  thick  and  sensual.  Felicia  drew  a  breath 
of  shivering  resentment,  as  in  spite  of  herself,  her 
brain  recognized  this  ugly  monster  as  the  counter, 
part  of  her  beloved  actor.  She  wished  that  she  had 
never  seen  it.  She  began  to  bitterly  reproach  her- 
self for  morbid,  and  wholly  unnecessary  curiosity. 


His  Own  Image 


Then  her  pliant  feminine  nature  asserted  itself, 
and  she  began  to  think,  in  poignant  distress,  of  the 
agony  that  this  sight  must  have  given  Reginald,  in 
the  flesh.  Ah,  she  knew  him  and  his  temperament. 
Could  any  man  survive  the  horror  of  seeing  himself 
ceroplastically  displayed  as  a  murderer  ?  She  re- 
membered Reginald's  complete  self-satisfaction. 
How  he  had  cherished  his  own  personality!  What 
joy  the  flattering  photographer  had  given  him  ! 
How  he  had  revelled  in  the  idealism  of  the  crayon 
artist  !  With  what  bliss  the  imaginings  of  the  "  im- 
pressionist "  had  filled  him  !  And  now  to  see  him- 
self done  in  wax,  as  an  assassin,  for  idle  droves  of 
people  to  look  at,  must  have  been  a  bitter  blow. 
Felicia's  sympathetic  instincts  gushed  forth,  and 
she  felt  that  she  must  go  to  Reginald  at  once,  and 
comfort  him  in  his  mortification.  She  recalled  an 
old  legend  that  she  had  read  somewhere — she 
couldn't  remember  where — setting  forth  the  fact 
that  the  man  who  is  permitted  to  look  upon  his  own 
double  must  shortly  afterwards  die.  The  legend 
returned  to  her.  It  must  have  been  years  since  she 
had  read  it.  It  had  remained,  unremembered,  on 
one  of  the  curious  shelves  of  her  memory.  It  came 
forth,  flavoured  with  her  early  enthusiasm.  It  had 
appealed  to  her  as  so  inordinately  fantastic,  years 
ago. 

She  looked  around  for  Mrs.  Landington,  feeling 
a  keen  desire  to  hear  her  h'less  talk  again.  An  illit- 
erate person  is  most  refreshing  in  a  crowdedly 
sensational  moment.  An  illiterate  person  is  a  sort 
of  relaxative,  the  value  of  which  cannot  be  overesti- 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  233 

mated.  But  the  housekeeper  was  not  to  be  seen, 
and  Felicia  gave  up  all  hopes  of  finding  her  in  the 
turgid  crowd  that  blocked  the  Chamber. 

She  made  a  solemn  promise  to  herself  not  to 
look  at  Dejazet's  face  again.  She  would  try  and 
forget  that  she  had  ever  been  guilty  of  recognizing 
the  features  of  Reginald,  in  the  jaundiced  waxen 
cast  of  the  model.  Her  visit  had  seemed  to  open 
the  door  to  disloyalty,  and  Heaven  knew  that  she 
clung  to  the  man  who  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  deliberately  turned  her  back  to  Dejazet,  and 
prepared  to  move  away  from  the  figure.  And 
then  Felicia  felt  that  her  eerie  sensations  must 
have  unhinged  her  mind.  Her  face  grew  white, 
and  she  was  suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of  trem- 
bling, for — with  her  back  to  Dejazet,  and  her  eyes 
resolutely  fixed  upon  the  group  of  people  twenty 
yards  away,  she  saw  the  horror  again.  She  knew 
that  he  was  behind  her,  and  yet  in  front  of  her,  he 
stood  gaunt,  erect,  and  staring,  among  the  sight- 
seers. It  was  an  illusion,  of  course.  It  must  be. 
She  turned  and  looked  back.  Yes,  Dejazet  stood 
there,  and  she  sanely  realized  that  fact  before 
glancing  ahead.  Then,  with  the  determination  to 
be  cool,  in  spite  of  everything,  she  gazed  in  front 
of  her.  The  other  Dejazet  had  not  stirred. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  looking-glass  effect — the  result 
of  curiously-disposed  mirrors,  destined  to  amaze 
the  mob.  Felicia  would  not  have  been  surprised 
if  she  had  seen  galaxies  of  Dejazet,  to  the  north, 
to  the  south,  to  the  east,  and  to  the  west.  The 
Dejazet  in  front  of  her,  however,  moved,  and  she 


234  His  Own  Image 

watched  him,  fascinated,  as  one  is  fascinated  by 
the  horrors  of  a  nightmare. 

She  saw  him  deliberately  turn  his  head,  and  speak 
to  a  woman  by  his  side.  She  remarked  the  woman 
— stout,  magnificently  dressed,  and  undoubtedly 
French — one  of  those  women  English  girls  hate  as 
the  possessor  of  a  chic  that  is  rarely  acquired,  and 
quite  unpurchasable,  in  England.  He  smiled. 
She  smiled.  They  both  stared  at  the  figure  behind 
Felicia.  He  spoke.  She  spoke.  They  looked 
again,  intently  and  silently.  He  linked  his  arm 
through  hers  as  though  for  fleshly  protection.  She 
pressed  it  closely,  in  immediate  response.  Felicia 
winced  at  the  ugly  fact  of  possession  that  the  wo- 
man made  quite  clear. 

An  instant  later,  and  her  faculties  alertly  re- 
turned to  her.  She  realized  the  fact  that  the  ap- 
parent Dej'azet  in  front  of  her  was  the  real  Reg- 
inald Rellerick.  There  could  be  no  doubt  at  all 
about  that.  This  was  not  the  resort  of  the  fantas- 
tic and  the  imaginative.  She  was  with  cheap  peo- 
ple, in  a  cheap  place,  in  a  cheap  locality.  Cheap- 
ness was  branded  upon  everything.  This  was  the 
abode  of  the  ultra-ordinary.  Her  lover  had  re- 
turned to  London  and*  had  determined  to  visit  the 
wax-work  exhibition  once  more.  She  stared  at  him, 
quietly  and  subtly  anxious  to  explain  everything 
reasonably  and  satisfactorily. 

Who  was  the  woman  by  his  side  ?  What  did 
this  companionship  signify?  Felicia  moved  from 
her  position  directly  ahead  of  them  and  turned  to 
the  side,  resolved  to  watch  them.  Her  heart  was 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  235 

beating  violently.  She  felt  it  cannon  against  her 
ribs,  in  an  irrepressible  tumult.  Reginald  and  his 
companion  appeared  to  be  studying  Dejazet 
earnestly.  There  was  no  anger  in  his  eyes.  They 
shone  with  a  sort  of  softened  light.  To  Felicia  it 
looked  very  much  as  though  this  horrid  yellow 
monster  was  favorably  considered  by  her  lover. 
The  woman  merely  appeared  to  acquiesce  in  every- 
thing he  said.  Yes,  she  was  French.  Felicia  could 
detect  the  "  outs  "  forming  themselves  upon  her 
red  and  humid  lips.  How  horrid  she  was,  and  how 
audacious  !  Felicia  called  her  "  bold."  It  is  the 
word  invariably  applied  by  the  English  girl  to  the 
insouciant,  rebellious  demeanour  of  the  French- 
woman. The  mystery  of  her  presence  there  was 
quite  inexplicable.  Reginald  was  so  fastidious,  so 
solitary,  so  uncommunicative,  that  the  sight  of  him 
in  familiar  and  agreeable  intercourse  with  a  person 
branded,  even  in  Felicia's  inexperienced  eyes,  with 
the  stigma  of  the  courtesan,  amazed  and  stupefied 
her. 

They  stood  there  quite  oblivious  of  the  passing 
crowd.  Men  and  women  came  and  went ;  gazed 
and  commented ;  chattered  and  laughed — but 
Reginald  and  this  woman  paid  not  the  slightest 
heed  to  them.  Felicia  saw  Mrs.  Landington  walk- 
ing alone  at  the  back  of  the  crowd,  moving  towards 
the  exit.  She  made  no  effort  to  rejoin  her.  She 
allowed  her  to  pass  from  the  Chamber  of  Horrors, 
preferring  to  meet  Reginald  unaccompanied. 

If  Felicia  had  seen  the  slightest  symptom  of  hor- 
ror upon  the  face  of  her  lover — the  horror  she  had 


236  His  Own  Image 

imagined  for  him — she  would  have  broken  through 
the  crowd  instantly,  and  thrusting  aside  his  com- 
rade, have  flung  herself  unconventionally  in  his 
arms.  But  there  was  not  a  tinge  of  distress  visible 
upon  his  features.  If  he  had  been  staring  at  a 
benefactor  of  the  human  race  his  look  could  not 
have  been  blander,  or  more  benign.  It  puzzled 
and  grieved  her.  Again  she  looked  at  the  waxen 
Dejazet,  and  felt  the  tingling  of  disgust  in  her 
veins.  Yet  he,  whom  this  monster  suggested  so 
strongly,  appeared  to  be  almost  happy,  and  quite 
unmoved. 

Felicia  herself  began  to  attract  attention.  Two 
rude  boys  approached  her,  and  pretending  to  be- 
lieve that  she  was  a  wax- work,  as  she  stood  there 
so  silently  and  attitudinally,  they  pinched  her  arm. 
She  reddened,  but  the  action  served  to  stimulate 
her.  She  went  to  the  exit,  and  made  up  her  mind 
to  wait  there  until  Reginald  and  the  woman  were 
ready  to  depart. 

The  time  passed  so  slowly  that  Felicia  could 
scarcely  repress  her  impatience.  She  heard  the 
outgoing  crowds  expressing  their  satisfaction  at  the 
sixpenny-worth  of  misery  they  had  witnessed.  She 
felt  exasperated  at  their  idle,  unfeeling  comments. 
How  could  she  ever  have  revelled  in  this  hideous 
array  of  ghosts,  and  have  spent  afternoons  in  their 
midst,  with  chocolate  creams  and  catalogues  ? 

She  saw  Reginald  and  the  woman  slowly  ap- 
proaching. They  seemed  unable  to  tear  themselves 
away  from  the  place.  Reginald  turned  frequently 
to  gaze  at  the  solitary  figure  that  was  no  longer  a 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  237 

piece  de  resistance  of  the  exhibition,  but  had 
settled  down  to  a  long  catalogued  career  of  com- 
mon-or-garden criminality.  Summoning  all  her 
pluck,  she  advanced  and  placed  herself  in  their 
path. 

The  woman  made  some  remark  in  French,  ex- 
pressing annoyance.  Then  Reginald  saw  her,  and 
if  she  had  ever  doubted  the  inadvisability  of  return- 
ing to  one's  "  loved  ones  "  unannounced,  she  had 
no  opportunity  to  doubt  it  now.  His  face  grew 
marble  in  whiteness,  and  into  his  eyes  came  the 
very  expression  that  she  had  seen  in  Dejazet's 
glassy  counterfeits.  It  was  the  identical  expression , 
and  Felicia  saw  it  for  herself.  Fortunately  her 
own  amour propre  stepped  in,  and  she  preferred  to 
believe  that  she  was  unstrung  and  imaginative. 
The  actor  dropped  the  arm  of  the  woman,  and  it 
fell  to  her  side,  fat,  and  bulging  through  its  silken 
sleeve. 

The  ego-maniac  recovered  himself  almost  imme- 
diately, long  before  Felicia  had  emerged  from  her 
emotion. 

"  Felicia  !"  he  cried  in  astonishment.  "  I — I — 
had  thought  you  were  in  Liverpool.  You — you — 
have  returned." 

The  banality  of  these  remarks  was  obvious,  but 
they  gave  him  time  for  further  machination.  He 
spoke  a  few  words  in  a  very  low  tone  to  La  Chinoise, 
who  cast  a  semi-derisive  look  at  the  little  actress. 

"  I — I — came  back  to  surprise  you,"  she  said 
haltingly,  "  I — I  seem  to  have  succeeded." 

"  Of  course  I  am  surprised,"  Reginald  remarked 


238  His  Own  Image 

"  but  " — sarcastically — "  it  is  a  very  pleasant  sur- 
prise. If  you  will  permit  me  to  take  this  lady  to 
her  carnage  we  will  go  to  my  apartments  to  lunch- 
eon." Then  to  La  Chinoise,  with  a  great  display 
of  solemn  politeness,  "  Permit  me,  Madame." 

La  Chinoise  smiled,  and  followed  Reginald.  Fe- 
licia trotted  quickly  behind  them.  In  spite  of  her- 
self, she  felt  glad.  Reginald's  tone  to  this  woman 
was  one  of  deference  rather  than  familiarity.  He 
had  probably  been  in  Paris,  and  had  returned  with 
some  French  artist,  to  whom  he  was  displaying  the 
"  sights  "  of  London.  She  hoped  so.  It  was  such 
an  easy  and  pleasant  thing  to  hope. 

"Where  shall  I  tell  your  coachman  to  drive 
you  ?"  asked  Reginald,  as  La  Chinoise  entered  the 
brougham,  and  he  stood  waiting  for  her  orders. 
And  when  Felicia  heard  the  command  to  start  for 
a  well-known  milliner's  establishment  in  Bond 
Street  she  felt  a  still  keener  inclination  to  be  satis- 
fied. 

They  were  alone — at  last.  Reginald  tried  hard 
to  keep  from  his  features  the  malignant  hatred  he 
felt  for  this  girl.  The  very  sight  of  her  had  aroused 
in  him  sensations  that  had  been  dormant  since  her 
absence.  She  was  the  cause  of  all  his  agony,  and 
he  was  obliged  to  marry  her  in  the  far-fetched  hope 
of  thus  removing  her  from  one  path  to  another. 
And  the  other  seemed  to  him  utterly  detestable. 

"  Who  was  that  woman,  Reginald  ?"  Felicia  asked 
instantly,  anxious  to  clear  up  that  muddy  point. 

Reginald  had  his  reply  ready.  "A  costumer," 
he  said.  "  I  have  engaged  her  to  make  my  ward- 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax  239 

robe  for  next  season.  They  say  she  is  very  clever. 
She  was  anxious  to  look  at  the  clothes  worn  by  our 
kings  and  queens.  So  I  brought  her  here." 

There  was  not  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  as  he  ut- 
tered this  coagulation  of  lies. 

"You  have  been  in  Paris?"  queried  Felicia,  feel- 
ing the  titillation  of  hope  in  her  breast. 

11  In  Paris !"  echoed  Reginald.  "  Why,  my  dear 
girl,  I  have  never  left  London." 

"  Then  Crampton  lied,"  cried  Felicia.  "  I  went 
to  your  house  and  he  told  me  that  you  were  away 
— out  of  town — he  did  not  know  where.  I  felt  that 
the  man  was  romancing.  I  asked  him  to  let  me 
know  when  you  returned." 

The  ego-maniac  shuddered.  Here  was  the  be- 
ginning of  the  symptoms  of  obnoxious  possession, 
that  the  law  was  soon  to  sanction— that  he  was  even 
anxious  to  court,  for  the  sake  of  his  career.  How 
ugly  it  looked — this  affection  of  which  poets  prated, 
and  which  novelists  blazoned  forth  ! 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said  loftily.  "  Crampton  is 
a  fool.  A  friend  of  mine  in  St.  John's  Wood  has 
written  a  play.  He  is  a  very  busy  man,  and  could 
not  afford  the  time  to  come  to  me.  So  I  put  my- 
self in  the  position  of  Mahomet  with  respect  to  the 
mountain,  and  went  to  him.  Don't  listen  to  Cramp- 
ton,  Felicia," — a  shade  of  uneasiness  crept  into  his 
voice — "  he  is  growing  old  and  stupid.  I  shall  be 
forced  to  dispense  with  his  services  very  soon." 

How  easily  it  was  all  explained  !  Felicia  almost 
laughed  as  she  recalled  the  hideous  hour  she  had 
spent  at  Madame  Tussaud's.  How  useful  all  her 


240  His  Own  Image 

agony  had  been  as  a  pleasant  paving  to  the  delight- 
ful way  of  Reginald's  sunny  mood. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  exquisite  it  is  to  see  you 
again,"  she  murmured,  pressing  his  arm,  and  as  she 
pressed  it  she  quickly  remembered  La  Chinoise's 
action  and  forgot  it. 

The  actor  could  not  reply.  His  aversion  was  so 
strong  that  poor  Felicia's  girlish  pressure  irritated 
him  beyond  expression. 

"And  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  wrote 
you  about  that  horrid  Dejazet.  I  came  to  see  if  he 
really  looked  like  you,  and  " — she  felt  an  almost 
voluptuous  joy  in  the  pretty  lie — "  I  couldn't  see 
any  resemblance.  Imagine  Reginald  Rellerick 
looking  like  a  murderer.  What  an  absurd  idea." 

"D6jazet,"  he  said,  bitterly  resentful,  "  was  per- 
haps what  the  world  calls  a  murderer.  But  he  was 
not  as  bad  as  silly  people  think  he  was.  I  know 
many  worse  people  than  D6jazet." 

He  said  this  so  indignantly,  that  Felicia  looked 
at  him  dumb  with  astonishment.  But  she  reflected 
that  this  was  probably  his  consolation  for  what  was 
undoubtedly  a  most  deplorable  incident.  It  was 
an  extremely  plausible  consolation.  Felicia's  sym- 
pathy for  him  gushed  forth  again,  and  she  pressed 
his  arm  even  more  affectionately. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said  purringly,  looking  up  into 
the  face  of  the  ego-maniac.  "I  have  something  to  tell 
you,  Reginald — some  advice  to  ask  you.  I  shall 
wait  until  we  are  alone,  because  I  want  to  argue, 
and  I  don't  feel  in  the  mood  for  it  just  yet." 

He  looked  at  her  suspiciously,  but  Felicia's  glance 


The  Flesh  and  the  Wax   *  241 

met  his  own  so  sweetly,  that  he  was  disarmed.  He 
hated  her  very  sweetness,  in  its  lack  of  sophisticated 
quality.  What  a  difference  between  this  bread-and- 
butter  girl,  and  the  richly-caparisoned  womanhood 
of  La  Chinoise  !  How  could  men  run  after  the 
silly  enigma  of  guilelessness,  when  it  was  possible 
to  obtain  the  splendid  authority  of  autumnal  ma- 
turity ? 

He  fretted  in  impatience,  as  they  were  whirled 
to  his  apartment. 


Chapter  XVI 

"A  WEEK  FROM  TO-DAY  " 

How  dissimilar  were  the  sensations  of  the  two 
as  they  sat  in  the  suave  juxtaposition  of  the  vehicle ! 
Felicia  almost  forgot  her  own  troubled  individual- 
ity in  Reginald's  presence.  The  memory  of  her 
impecunious  mother  and  stagnating  sisters  faded 
slowly  away.  She  still  recalled  the  "  big  offer '' 
that  had  appealed  to  her  practical  sense.  It 
loomed  up  occasionally,  as  she  leaned  on  his  arm, 
and  assumed  the  proportions  of  an  ominous  black 
cloud.  Suppose  he  should  consent  to  her  three 
years'  contract !  As  she  reflected  upon  this  faint 
possibility,,  she  was  almost  tempted  to  leave  un- 
mentioned  the  managerial  inducement.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  be  by  his  side  again  ;  to  respire  with 
him  the  ambition-laden  atmosphere  of  London  ;  to 
know  that  she  was  the  only  creature  privileged  at 
this  particular  moment  to  bask  in  his  sunshine. 
She  lay  there  with  her  eyes  half  closed — a  captiva- 
ting picture  of  confidence. 

Reginald  felt  suddenly  weary  and  nervous.  The 
presence  of  this  woman  was  hateful  to  him.  The 
fact  that  he  was  enduring  this  malaise  for  the  sake 
of  his  own  ego-pedestal  that  she  had  endangered, 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  243 

simply  enfuriated  him  more  thoroughly  against 
her.  He  felt  her  head  as  it  rested  upon  his  coat 
sleeve,  and  physical  contact — which  is  one  of  the 
most  capricious,  the  most  illogical,  and  the  most 
potential  of  all  human  conditions — stung  him  into 
dismay.  And  the  time  was  approaching  rapidly, 
unerringly,  irrevocably,  when  he  must  acknowledge 
her  as  his  wife  ;  when  he  must  sit  with  her  at  the 
breakfast-table,  and  watch  her  eating  boiled  eggs 
and  kippered  herrings  ;  when  his  dinner-hour  must 
be  hers,  and  his  nights  be  passed  by  her  side. 
Reginald,  like  most  ego-maniacs,  had  no  very  grave 
respect  for  the  institution  of  marriage.  The  very 
fact  that  Felicia,  by  this  union,  would  share  his 
name,  and  enjoy  the  reflection  of  his  lustrous 
career,  was  melancholy  enough.  The  ego-maniac 
wants  everything  for  himself.  He  must  be  the  one 
luminous  object  in  a  sky  that  is  otherwise  dark. 

He  thought  almost  tenderly  of  his  yellow  double 
in  the  Marylebone  Road,  alone  and  emancipated. 
The  model  had  interested  him  strangely  that 
morning.  He  wondered  why  he  had  considered  it 
uncanny.  It  had  his  own  classic  and  thought-lov- 
ing profile,  and  every  characteristic  of  his  own  per- 
sonality that  he  had  for  years  admired.  Dejazet 
seemed  to  have  stared  at  him  sympathetically,  as 
he  stood  in  the  museum  with  La  Chinoise — the 
very  woman  whom  the  French  artist  had  wor- 
shipped. After  all,  this  waxen  hereafter  at  Tus- 
saud's  was  not  so  dreadful.  Dejazet  was  sur- 
rounded by  the  ceroplastic  emblems  of  men  and 
women  who  had  won  notoriety,  either  by  the  ex- 


244  His  Own  Image 

tremes  of  virtue  or  of  vice.  His  was  not  an  ordi- 
nary position.  The  world — which  is  the  ego-mani- 
ac's heaven — had  marvelled  at  him,  and  the  Lon- 
don crowds  watched  him  day  by  day.  Genevieve 
Delaunay  slept  in  her  grave,  unremembered,  and 
unmodelled.  The  man  who,  for  the  sake  of  his 
art,  had  removed  her  from  his  path,  had  a  pedestal 
all  to  himself.  To  the  ego-maniac  (and  the  world 
is  full  of  types  less  pronounced  than  Reginald 
Rellerick)  there  is  danger  in  the  contemplation  of 
notoriety.  The  mental  pervert,  who  would  rather 
be  an  extraordinary  criminal,  than  an  ordinary 
nonentity,  is  not  a  stranger  to  the  annals  of  crime. 
Morbid  museums  are  much  frequented.  The  tiny 
urchin,  who  reads  penny-dreadfuls,  and  loves  to 
imagine  himself  in  the  varied  situations  of  their 
heroes,  is  the  egg  from  which  the  ego-maniac  is 
hatched. 

Crampton's  face  was  a  study  in  perplexity,  as  he 
saw  Felicia  and  Reginald  drive  up  to  the  door. 
The  actor  looked  at  his  secretary  with  an  impu- 
dently satirical  and  quasi-triumphant  air.  Felicia 
tossed  her  stupid  little  head  as  she  noticed  the 
humble  Oxonian,  who  had  been  guilty  of  the 
iniquity  of  offering  advice  to  the  headstrong  girl. 
And  the  secretary  knew  that  his  cause  was  lost. 

"  Any  letters,  Crampton  ?"  asked  Reginald, 
loftily,  proudly  conscious  that  he  was  master  of  the 
occasion,  now  as  ever. 

Crampton  was  reckless  and  defiant.  "  A  few 
bills  from  St.  John's  Wood,"  he  said,  pointedly. 
"  I  paid  them,  presuming  that  they  were  cor- 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  245 

rect.  There  was  an  account  of  thirty  pounds,  and 
some  odd  shillings  at — " 

"  That  will  do,"  Reginald  interrupted,  with  a  sin- 
ister glance  at  his  mouldy  factotum.  "  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  worried  with  money  affairs.  I  have 
never  asked  for  such  details,  Crampton,  and  I  do 
not  intend  to  begin  now.  I  am  surprised  at  you." 

"  I  thought  " — began  the  secretary,  with  the  sink- 
ing feeling  of  deference  that  Reginald's  high-falutin 
way  invariably  induced.  But  what  he  thought  was, 
in  the  language  of  the  law-court,  "  irrelevant  and 
immaterial,"  and  Reginald  moved  away  to  his 
sanctum,  followed  by  Felicia.  She  closed  the  door 
quickly. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  standing  at  the  portal,  expect- 
ant and  laughing.  "  You  may  kiss  me." 

The  fact  was  so  obvious,  that  the  humor  of  the 
poor,  clinging  thing  appealed  to  him,  and  he  smiled 
in  his  ugly  and  sournois  manner.  Probably  he 
would  have  appreciated  her  more,  if  she  had  dis- 
played the  tawdry  coquetries  of  La  Chinoise,  the 
courtesan,  who  had  studied  the  philosophy  of  the 
offensive  and  the  defensive  in  matters  of  sexual 
companionship.  Felicia  was  the  foolish,  unsophis- 
ticated English  girl,  redolent  of  strong  tea,  and 
lettuce,  and  she  was  not  amusing.  He  summoned 
up  his  courage — for  it  'was  really  a  matter  of 
courage — and  kissed  her.  As  he  did  so,  the  image 
of  D6jazet,  standing  up  at  Tussaud's,  with  a  smile 
on  his  pink  wax  lips,  appeared  before  him,  and  gave 
him  strength.  He  kissed  her  with  a  semblance  of 
earnestness. 


246  His  Own  Image 

"And  now,"  said  Felicia,  quivering  with  delight, 
"  we'll  have  a  nice  long  chat.  Sit  down  and  listen, 
Reginald,  and  be  prepared  to  advise." 

A  vague  and  almost  hopeless  hope  came  to  him. 
Perhaps  some  Lancashire  squire  with  a  rent-roll 
had  proposed  to  her,  and  mamma  had  favored  his 
suit !  Possibly  some  domestic  difficulty  had  oc- 
curred which  urged  her  to  settle  for  ever  in  the 
provinces.  Reginald  was  conscious  of  a  huge  and 
overwhelming  menace  of  magnanimity.  He  would 
not  withhold  his  consent.  He  would — sorrow- 
fully, of  course — refuse  to  keep  her  to  her  engage- 
ment. He  would  dower  her  handsomely.  He 
would  give  her  his  friendship  for  life — friendship 
was  so  nice  and  cheap.  He  would  cause  her  to 
remember  him  gladly — for  the  adulation  of  Felicia 
at  a  safe  and  unsurpassable  distance,  would  not  be 
disagreeable.  He  would  place  a  box  in  his  theatre 
at  the  disposal  of  herself  and  husband,  whenever 
she  visited  London.  He  sat  there,  dreaming  of  a 
swift  and  gorgeous  release.  And  as  this  faint  pos- 
sibility of  happiness  flecked  the  darkness  of  his 
mind,  he  thought  once  more  of  Dejazet,  and  saw 
him  this  time,  in  all  his  frightful  ostracism. 

"  Reginald,"  said  Felicia,  slowly  and  tentatively. 
"  While  I  was  at  home  in  Lancashire,  I  could  not 
help  remembering  that  I  am  a  horribly  dependent 
girl.  You  know  that  mamma  is  poor,  and  my 
sisters — dear  girls — are  expensive.  I  have  given 
them  regularly  half  of  my  earnings  "  (and  she  did 
not  think  resentfully  of  the  pittance  he  had  allowed 
her),  "  and  they  have  managed  to  jog  along  as 


"  A  Week  From  To-day"  247 

cheerfully  as  possible.  But — "  sighing,  "  the  girls 
are  grown  up.  They  need  attractive  gowns  in 
order  to  keep  up  appearances,  and — and — mamma's 
expenses  seem  to  me  to  be  larger  than  they  were." 

This  sounded  promising,  and  Reginald's  almost 
hopeless  hope  flickered  spasmodically. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  nearly  kindly.  "  Of  course." 

He  felt  more  inclined  to  be  magnanimous  than 
ever — willing  to  give  half  his  fortune  to  the  Liver- 
pool girls.  He  felt  that  they  were  ungainly,  seed- 
cake-eating women,  who  wore  white  muslin,  with 
blue  sashes,  and  had  large  feet  in  buttoned  boots. 

"  It  would  be  humiliating  to  me,  Reginald,"  she 
went  on,  almost  pleadingly,  "  to  ask  for  money, 
every  time  I  needed  to  send  some  home.  Of 
course  I  know  that  you  are  generosity  personified, 
and  would  never  refuse  it,  but — but — there  is  a  way 
out  of  the  difficulty,  and  perhaps — perhaps — you 
will  consent  to  it." 

Her  heart  sank,  for  an  expression  that  distinctly 
resembled  benevolence  was  woven  into  the  texture 
of  his  features.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  going  to 
relinquish  her  for  her  own  sake,  and  listen  to  the 
promptings  that  a  sheer  sense  of  duty  induced  her 
to  make.  Misericorde  ! 

"  You  need  not  mind  asking  me  for  money, 
Felicia,"  he  murmured,  vif  with  a  hope  that  seemed 
almost  dazzling,  still  haunted  by  the  vision  of 
Dejazet  sneering  and  deriding.  "  What  I  have  is 
yours,  now  and  always." 

"  Dear  Reginald  !"  she  said,  and  a  tear  trickled 
down  her  cheek.  He  was  certainly  going  to  see 


248  His  Own  Image 

everything  as  she  dreaded  him  to  see  it.  "  Then 
again,"  she  went  on.  "  I  know  that  you,  my  dear 
boy,  are  not  overburdened  with  riches,  that  you 
live  extravagantly,  that  you  make  big  productions 
which  call  for  the  expenditure  of  thousands  of 
pounds,  that  your  cherished  profession  is,  at  the 
best,  but  a  game  of  speculation,  and — and — I  don't 
want  to  be  an  incubus."  Then  frightened  at  what 
appeared  to  her  to  be  a  veritable  Niagara  of  irresist- 
ible logic  she  began  to  cry.  Going  up  to  him,  she 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  sobbed  :  "  You 
know,  dear,  that  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever." 

For  the  first  time,  since  the  malevolence  of  fate 
had  allowed  her  to  supplant  him,  he  felt  that  there 
were  some  redeeming  features  in  poor  Felicia  Hal- 
stead.  She  was  surely  about  to  do  the  Marguerite 
Gautier  act,  and  loving,  relinquish  him.  She  had 
undoubtedly  been  wooed  in  Lancashire.  And  he 
amused  himself  by  imagining  her  lover — some  sleek 
and  well-fed  business  man,  with  glistening  pomaded 
hair  parted  on  the  side,  a  respectable  diagonal 
"  tail-coat  "  and  a  nice  silk  hat,  worn  on  Sundays 
only. 

"  Felicia,"  he  said — and  he  made  a  pretense  of 
being  deeply  moved,  "  I  have  your  welfare  always 
at  heart.  It  has  ever  been  my  desire,  as  I  think 
you  will  acknowledge,  to  see  you  happy  and  com- 
fortable. Although  it  might  wound  me  deeply  to 
find  our  plans  set  aside  " — the  words  seemed  too 
sweet  to  utter  with  nonchalance — "  you  can  be  quite 
persuaded  that  I  shall  never  do  anything  to  inter- 
fere with  your  prospects." 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  249 

The  ego-maniac  loves  to  "  make  sacrifices,"  be. 
cause,  by  so  doing,  he  seems  to  enhance  his  own 
value.  But  the  sacrifices  must  naturally  be  inex- 
pensive, and  not  calculated  in  any  way  to  interfere 
with  his  own  voluptuous  self-idolatry. 

"  But,"  said  Felicia,  drying  her  eyes  and  giving 
her  duty-cause  a  dig,  "  I  don't  want  you  to  let  me 
go,  if  you  really  feel  that  it  will  be  too  hard  for  you. 
Remember  that.  Please  remember  that." 

Reginald  twitched  with  the  excitement  of  an  ex- 
pectation that  seemed  to  him  to  open  the  doors  of 
heaven — an  expectation  of  freedom,  of  permission 
to  resume  his  career,  non-confronted  by  the  danger 
of  a  dreaded  and  feminine  rival.  He  could  scarcely 
wait  for  her  to  continue.  He  arose  and  placed  his 
trembling  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  "  Go  on,  Felicia, 
tell  me  all,"  he  muttered. 

Felicia  scarcely  knew  how  to  begin.  She  made 
a  supreme  effort  however,  and  started  :  "  You  are 
an  actor,  Reginald,  for  the  sake  of  art  and  glory. 
I  told  you  truly,  some  time  ago,  that  I  could  not 
understand  that.  It  seems  to  me  such  a  poor  thing 
to  live  for — the  adulation  of  a  crowd  of  people  one 
cares  nothing  whatsoever  about.  I  could  never  act 
for  laurels,  my  dear,  but  I  could  act  for  the  sake  of 
the  money  that  the  work  brings  in.  When  I  got 
back  from  Liverpool,  I  found  a  letter  from  Morti- 
mer Branton — your  old  friend,  Reginald — offering 
me  a  three  years'  contract,  at  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  week — a  fortune,  Reginald.  And — and — 
it  seemed  to  me — " 

She  stopped,  terrified  by  the  look  upon  his  face 


250  His  Own  Image 

— a  look  oppressive,  vindictive,  deadly — the  look 
that  Dejazet  at  Madame  Tussaud's  wore  in  yellow 
wax.  She  paused  for  a  moment,  mortally  afraid  of 
that  look,  and  then  moistening  her  lips,  upon  which 
the  crusts  of  fever  were  forming,  went  on  :  "  It 
seemed  to  me  that  it  would  be  sinful  to  set  aside 
such  an  offer,  unconsidered.  One  doesn't  find  such 
opportunities  every  day,  dear.  As  I  told  you,  I 
have  no  interest  in  the  stage  for  itself,  but  if  you 
consent,  I — I  will  work  hard,  diligently,  unceasingly 
for  three  years,  and  come  to  you  then,  as  your  wife, 
not — not  quite  penniless." 

The  reaction  came  swiftly  to  the  actor.  From 
the  height  of  a  golden  promise  that  seemed  to  be 
the  acme  of  exaltation,  he  was  hurled  headlong  into 
the  old  pitiless  and  irremediable  situation.  The 
shock  was  so  great,  that  the  torrent  of  words  which 
would  have  indicated  his  fury  was  fortunately 
stayed.  The  very  pitfall  that  he  had  dreaded  the 
morning  after  his  failure  had  opened  at  his  feet. 
Here,  right  before  him,  was  the  woman  whom  Lon. 
don  would  rear  up  in  his  stead.  He  felt  sick  with 
disgust.  Mortimer  Branton,  one  of  the  wiliest  and 
most  infallible  of  the  money-makers  in  the  market 
of  theatrical  speculation,  had  seen  the  possibilities 
of  Felicia  Halstead,  to  the  tune  of  a  three  years'  con- 
tract, at  an  enormous  salary.  What  he  feared  had 
come  to  pass,  and  in  his  ego-mania  and  dank  selfish- 
ness he  judged  her  by  his  own  standard,  and  disre- 
garded even  the  power  of  her  love. 

The  torrent  of  anger  that  the  sudden  shock  had 
dammed,  broke  loose  at  last.  He  grew  apoplectic- 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  25 1 

ally  red  in  the  face,  trembled,  and  paced  the  room 
like  a  caged  beast.  "  What  did  I  tell  you,"  he 
cried,  "  when  you  came  to  me  with  pretty  pathetic 
stories  of  devotion  ?  What  did  I  say  when  I  accused 
you  of  trying  to  oust  me  from  my  position  ?  Ah, 
I  knew  you,  Felicia  Halstead,  I  knew  you.  What 
is  a  promise  of  marriage  to  you  ?  With  all  your 
protestations,  you  succumb  to  the  smallest  tempta- 
tion. I  am  tired  of  it.  I  am  weary,  disgusted. 
Curse  Pinerville.  Curse  his  play  that  brought  me 
to  this.  Bah  !" 

The  room  swam,  and  he  almost  fell,  in  the  whirl- 
wind of  his  anger.  He  forgot  La  Chinoise  ;  he  for- 
got the  last  few  days  of  his  strange  and  threatening 
self-composure.  But  he  could  see  the  waxen  figure 
of  Dejazet  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  and  to  his  excited 
imagination,  it  seemed  to  be  laughing  in  a  waxen 
ecstasy  of  impossible  mirth. 

Felicia  was  afraid,  but  Felicia  was  a  woman, 
wearing  the  opaque  bandage  of  love.  Reginald's 
coarsely  evident  wrath  was  to  her  but  the  pardon- 
able fury  of  a  baffled  lover.  She  sat  and  watched 
him,  as  though  she  were  admiring  the  reckless 
grandeur  of  an  electric  storm.  Her  feelings  were 
hurt  by  the  savagery  of  his  words,  but  they  daz- 
zled and  stimulated  her. 

"  You  shall  never  accept  this  contract,"  he 
shouted,  "  Never.  I  swear  it.  You  shall  fulfil 
your  promise.  You  shall  not  mortify  my  soul  by 
your  vacillations  and  your  disloyalty." 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  his  rage.  She  threw  back 
her  head  in  a  little  nervous  way  that  was  not  un- 


252  His  Own  Image 

usual  with  her.  He  saw  her  cool  white  throat,  with 
its  thin  blue  veins.  Once  again  the  picture  of 
DeJ'azet  leaped  into  his  mind.  The  crowds  were 
gazing  at  him  now  in  the  Marylebone  Road,  and 
recalling  the  details  of  his  murder-crime.  For  once 
Reginald  was  afraid  of  himself.  The  effort  to  rid 
his  mind  of  the  Dejazet  idea,  was  such  a  tremen- 
dous one  that  it  exhausted  his  mental  force.  He  sat 
down,  the  perspiration  dripping  from  his  forehead. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  dear  Reginald,"  cried  Felicia  in 
alarm,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  vex  you  like  this.  I 
merely  suggested  to  you  my  own  idea — an  idea 
that  had  you  in  view  just  as  much  as  myself.  I 
told  you  that  I  wanted  your  advice.  I  was  afraid 
that  you  would  tell  me  to  sign  the  contract  and  go 
ahead.  Your  manner  a  few  minutes  ago  seemed 
to  indicate  your  willingness.  You  frighten  me 
when  you  behave  like  this.  I  have  done  nothing 
at  all.  I  have  signed  no  contract.  We  are  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  position  now,  as  we  were  when  you 
spoke  to  me  at  Euston  Station." 

He  stared  at  her,  and  tried  to  penetrate  the  sig- 
nificance of  her  words.  The  ego-maniac  always 
looks  for  a  "  significance,"  even  when  a  blessing  is 
bestowed  upon  him.  He  would  suspect  an  angel 
of  mercy  of  ulterior  motives.  His  hatred  of  this 
woman  surely  exceeded  the  limits  of  mortal  hatred. 
It  was  like  a  sirocco  and  it  seared  him.  He  had 
been  buoyed  up  by  the  fantastic  hope  that  she 
would  pass  out  of  his  life,  surely  and  for  ever,  only 
to  find  that  she  was  more  irrevocably  tangled  up 
than  ever  with  his  career. 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  253 

"  You  will  fulfil  your  promise  ?"  he  asked 
harshly,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  roomful  of 
people  looked  at  him,  and  called  him  No.  37,  and 
commented  upon  the  expression  of  his  face,  and 
declared  that  he  looked  the  criminal,  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  she  answered,  gladly,  still 
alarmed  at  the  storm  she  had  called  forth,  and 
trembling  slightly.  "  I  love  you,  and  my  life  has 
but  one  object.  I  hate  the  stage.  I  purposed 
resuming  work  simply  for  the  reasons  that  you 
already  know." 

Suspicion  filmed  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  at  her, 
darkly  questioning.  Her  earnestness,  the  sincerity 
that  had  not  swerved  at  the  tirade  that  would  have 
driven  away  a  practical,  unclinging  woman  seemed 
to  convince  him.  He  had  made  a  mistake.  She 
had  not  intended  to  compete  with  his  stage  career, 
unless  he  himself  had  advised  it.  She  was  still  his, 
to  hunt  from  the  eyes  of  men,  and  fetter  with  the 
chains  of  an  eternal  domesticity.  He  had  hated 
her  before  this,  and  now  he  dreaded  her.  She  was 
a  rival  in  imagination  before  this  hour.  Now  she 
appeared  before  him  as  an  actual  combatant, 
selected  as  worthy  to  cope  with  him,  by  one  of  the 
shrewdest  theatrical  men  in  London— by  the  very 
man,  in  fact, 'whose  championship  he  had  himself 
sought  in  vain.  Poor  Felicia's  unselfishness  had 
operated  cruelly  against  herself.  Unselfishness 
frequently  does  this,  for  it  is  less  vulgarly  spectac- 
ular than  ego-mania,  and  it  is  generally  miscon- 
strued. 


254  His  Own  Image 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  however.  He  real- 
ized that.  She  was  still  his,  and  the  nauseating 
task  of  rebinding  her  to  him  confronted  him 
eagerly. 

"  You  frightened  me,  Felicia,"  he  gasped.  "  I 
had  relied  upon — upon  our  marriage,  and — and — 
you  seemed  so  desperate." 

Felicia  went  to  him,  and  with  her  handkerchief — 
a  pretty  little  lace  affair  that  she  wore  at  her  waist 
— wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow.  Then  she 
stroked  his  hair  and  kissed  him  as  though  he  had 
been  a  spoiled  child.  And  Felicia  belonged  to  a 
sex  that  has  taken  to  wearing  trousers  and  inveigh- 
ing against  the  tyranny  of  man — a  sex  that  can 
never  accomplish  this  new  mission,  until  the  Felicias 
of  the  world  have  been  stamped  out.  And  they 
are  being  born  every  day. 

An  inkling  of  sense  crept  into  her  mind.  She 
said,  simply :  "  I  don't  believe  you  love  me,  Regi- 
nald." 

It  was  so  quietly  spoken,  and  there  was  such 
apparent  resignation  in  it,  that  the  ego-maniac  felt 
another  qualm  of  fear.  In  spite  of  all,  she  might 
never  marry  him,  if  she  even  suspected  a  fraction 
of  the  unlovely  truth. 

"  I  love  you,  Felicia,"  he  said,  with  a  force  of 
will  that  astonished  him,  "  else  why  should  I  have 
troubled  to  quarrel  with  you  ?  We  are  angry  only 
with  those  whom  it  is  worth  while  to  reproach.  I 
talked  nonsense  about  your  supplanting  me,  but  it 
was  an  excuse — you  will  admit  that  it  was  a  plausi- 
ble excuse,  Felicia." 


"  A  Week  From  To-day  "  255 

He  seemed  self-reproachful,  and  Felicia's  ready 
sympathies  came  forth  as  usual.  "Yes,  yes,  I 
know,"  she  remarked,  soothingly.  "  It  is  all  under- 
stood. You  were  a  wicked,  spiteful  boy,  and  you 
are  sorry  for  it." 

"Do  you  " — he  put  the  question  uneasily — "do 
you  believe  that  I  love  you  ?" 

"  If  you  say  it,"  she  replied,  ingenuously,  "  I  be- 
lieve it.  Say  it." 

He  still  felt  the  eyes  of  a  roomful  of  people  upon 
him.  He  seemed  to  be  standing  erect  before  them, 
awaiting  their  comments.  In  his  ears  rang  such 
phrases  as  "Look  at  his  expression,"  "See  that 
queer  compression  of  the  lips,"  and  "  Can't  you 
notice  the  lines  about  his  mouth  ?"  His  feet  ap- 
peared to  be  stiff,  and  his  legs  without  sensation. 
The  clothes  he  wore  pressed  uncomfortably  against 
his  flesh.  He  experienceS  a  strange  inclination  to 
laugh,  but  he  was  unable  to  coax  a  smile  to  his 
lips.  Above  the  voices  of  the  roomful  of  people 
he  heard  Felicia's  words — "  If  you  say  it,  I  believe 
it.  Say  it." 

"I  say  it,"  he  murmured.     "  I  love  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  in  his  own.  It 
was  pink,  and  plump,  and  pretty.  His  own  fin- 
gers struck  him  as  looking  yellow  and  nailless,  like 
those  of  the  model  at  Tussaud's. 

Felicia  stood  on  tiptoe  and  kissed  him.  He  was 
about  to  shrink  from  the  embrace  that  gave  him  a 
sensation  of  something  akin  to  pain,  but  too  much 
was  at  stake.  For  the  present,  at  any  rate,  he 
must  dissemble.  Later  on,  perhaps — He  remem- 


256  His  Own  Image 

bered  La  Chinoise,  and  the  very  different  feeling 
of  her  warm,  ripe  and  enthusiastic  lips.  Ah,  he 
had  met  very  few  women  like  La  Chinoise.  How 
easy  it  would  have  been  to  follow  the  decrees  of  a 
fate  that  compelled  him  to  marry  La  Chinoise  ! 

"  We  will  be  married  a  week  from  to-day,"  said 
Felicia.  "  And  then  my  poor  boy  will  have  no 
further  occasion  to  fear  the  desertion  of  his  sweet- 
heart. Will  a  week  from  to-day  suit  you,  Regi- 
nald ?" 

"  A  week  from  to-day  ?"  he  echoed.  "  Yes,  a 
week  from  to-day." 

They  passed  from  the  room,  almost  stumbling 
against  Crampton  at  the  head  of  the  staircase. 
The  secretary  looked  at  them  helplessly.  He  fol- 
lowed them  downstairs.  Reginald  went  first,  and 
entered  the  dining-room.  Felicia,  a  few  yards  be- 
hind, was  on  the  threshold  of  that  apartment. 
Crampton  came  forward,  and  she  heard  him  say,  in 
her  ear  :  "  A  week  from  to-day.  Do  not  be  afraid. 
Remember  my  words." 


Chapter  XVII 

SHRIMPS  AND  WATERCRESS 

THE  die  was  cast,  and  the  denouement  must 
work  itself  out  to  its  very  knots.  The  web  into 
which  fate  had  pushed  him  was  closing  around 
him.  He  could  still  wriggle  a  little,  and  feel  the 
freedom  of  his  wings,  but  there  was  no  ultimate 
hope.  He  had  made  his  bed,  and  it  was  there 
yawning  for  him.  Felicia  left  him  shortly  after 
the  naming  of  the  "  glad  day,"  and  went  back 
to  Notting  Hill,  on  the  condition  that  she  should 
see  him  again  that  evening.  She  had  reached  the 
position  when  she  was  able  to  make  "  conditions," 
and  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  thought  of  it.  His 
callous  selfishness  never  suggested  to  him  that  poor 
Felicia's  eagerness  was  due  to  a  desire  to  take  him 
away  from  himself,  and  from  the  odious  souvenirs 
of  his  waxen  counterpart. 

He  was  to  go  to  Notting  Hill  that  night.  He 
sat  in  a  sort  of  stupor — in  a  veritable  mental  cul- 
de-sac.  His  thoughts  flew  to  St.  John's  Wood  and 
La  Chinoise.  He  would  not  give  her  up.  He 
could  afford  two  households,  and  he  could  render 
life  endurable  in  that  way.  It  was  an  arrangement 
with  which  London  was  extremely  familiar.  The 

[257] 


258  His  Own  Image 

rule  in  the  metropolis  was  external  monogamy, 
internal  polygamy.  Who  would  care  ?  Possibly 
not  even  Felicia,  as  the  bloom  wore  off  the  love- 
apple,  and  sentiment  resolved  itself  into  boiled 
mutton  and  caper-sauce. 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  thought.  Before  his  men- 
tal vision  arose  the  omnipresent  Dejazet,  still  erect 
on  his  pedestal,  yellow  and  menacing.  And  he 
remembered  La  Chinoise's  story  with  a.  shudder- 
"Claire,"  Dejazet  had  said,  on  the  eve  of  marriage 
with  Genevieve,  "  I  have  lost  everything.  I  must 
marry  this  girl,  and  you  and  I  must  end  our  rela- 
tions. I  will  try  and  do  my  duty.  Perhaps  I  have 
been  a  brute.  I  hate  her  now,  but  possibly  when 
she  is  my  wife,  bearing  my  name,  I  may  become, 
at  any  rate,  more  reconciled  to  my  life." 

Was  he  more  infamous  than  the  dead  artist  who 
had  reached  Madame  Tussaud's,  branded  as  a 
"  murderer  ?"  Even  this  sinister  thing,  at  which 
the  ribald  mob  stared,  had  possessed  the  decency 
that  holds  the  civilized  world  in  its  clasp.  Even 
this  murderer  had  contemplated  abandoning  the 
woman  he  loved,  for  the  sake  of  the  woman  he 
married.  Reginald  hated  to  think  contemptuously 
of  himself.  The  ego-maniac  is  frequently  virtuous, 
not  in  order  to  please  society,  but  in  order  to  please 
himself.  He  dislikes  to  damage  the  symmetry  of 
his  own  picture.  So  Rellerick  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would,  for  his  own  sake,  inform  La  Chinoise 
of  his  contemplated  marriage,  and  rupture  their 
relations. 

It  would  be  a  bitter  blow  to  her,  of  course,  for 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  259 

she  loved  him  as  she  had  loved  D£jazet.  There 
would  be  a  scene  of  agony  that  would  be  horrid, 
yet  pleasant.  And  she  would  swear,  as  she  had 
sworn  before,  that  this  marriage  should  not  take 
place.  He  never  doubted  the  affection  of  the 
Frenchwoman.  It  seemed  to  be  such  an  exceed- 
ingly tangible  affair  and  so  absolutely  reasonable. 
Moreover,  he  felt  impelled  to  love  her.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  knitted  into  the  texture  of  his  life. 
So  had  D£jazet  felt,  but  D<§jazet  had  said :  "  You 
and  I  must  end  our  relations.  I  will  try  and  do 
my  duty."  He  would  do  the  same.  The  grinning 
effigy  in  the  Marylebone  Road  should  be  allowed 
no  advantages.  He  would  not  be  inferior  to  one 
whom  the  world  called  criminal. 

Crampton  came  into  the  room,  noiselessly,  more 
mildewed  than  ever.  The  stoop  of  his  shoulders 
seemed  to  have  emphasized  itself,  and  his  rusty  coat 
shone.  The  secretary  was  nervous  and  unable  to 
settle  to  his  usual  tasks.  He  hovered  around  Reg- 
inald, as  though  he  were  trying  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  speak,  and  were  unable  to  bring  himself  to  it. 
He  "  pottered  "  about,  and  his  parchment  face  was 
more  bloodless  than  ever.  Finally,  he  nerved  him- 
self to  his  effort,  and  his  phonographic  voice 
emerged  from  its  silence. 

He  stood  in  front  of  the  comatose  actor,  and 
said  :  "  Shall  you  leave  London  after  your  mar- 
riage ?  Shall  you  take  your — your  wife  away  ? 
It  is  usual,  I  know,  but — is  it  not  useless  ?" 

Reginald  looked  up,  and  pondered  over  the  words 
before  he  quite  understood  what  they  meant. 


260  His  Own  Image 

Their  import  came  upon  him  with  a  rush  and 
aroused  him  to  impatience. 

"  What  has  that  to  do  with  you  ?"  he  cried. 
"  What  does  it  matter  to  you  whether  we  stay  in 
London  or.  go  to  Jamaica  ?  I  have  no  plans. 
What  is  your  interest  in  the  matter  ?  Perhaps  " — 
sarcastically — "  you  have  some  advice  to  offer  in 
your  latest  role  of  confidence-dispenser." 

Crampton  had  no  illusions,  and  sarcasm  was 
quite  lost  upon  him.  He  was  grappling  with  a 
tragedy,  and  his  own  skin  mattered  very  little.  "  I 
have  advice,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  Stay  in  London. 
You  would  be  miserable  away  from  it.  It  is  your 
life,  and  the  atmosphere  that  you  love.  Remain  in 
London,  with  the  crowd.  It  is  the  wisest  thing  to 
do." 

Reginald  laughed  harshly.  "  You  can't  picture 
us  cooing  on  a  mountain,"  he  said,  "  or  billing  by 
the  side  of  some  dirty  stream  that  the  poets  call 
pellucid  ?  You  can't  imagine  us  as  twin  souls  with 
but  one  single  thought — and  that  thought  a  purple 
mountain,  or  an  orange  sunset  ?  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  j 
I  am  afraid  that  you  know  me,  Crampton.  You 
think  it  more  reasonable  that  we  should  stay  in  the 
metropolis,  and  start  our  manage  in  the  tumult — 
begin  as  we  mean  to  go  on.  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !" 

But  even  as  he  laughed — the  prospect  grew  hate- 
ful and  black.  He  must  indeed  begin  his  wedded 
life  as  he  meant  to  end  it.  It  was  not  his  plan  to 
establish  Felicia  Halstead  in  the  crowd — to  supply 
the  Londoners  with  a  Mrs.  Reginald  Rellerick. 
Her  establishment  should  be  everything  that  was 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  261 

seemly  and  luxurious.  But  it  should  be  where  she 
could  languish,  unknown  and  unsuspected.  Yes, 
he  had  already  settled  that  point  in  his  mind. 
Her  London  life  should  end  when  the  wedding- 
ring  was  on  her  finger.  There  could  be  no  regrets, 
and  no  false  hopes. 

"  Your  advice  is  useless,  Crampton,"  he  said, 
lightly.  "  We  shall  go  away — as  every  respectable 
married  couple  should  do.  While  I  may  not  care 
to  join  the  throng  of  picnicking  Benedicts,  and  do 
the  stereotyped  visit  to  Paris,  or  the  conventional 
trip  to  Switzerland,  we  shall  go  away.  And  " — 
with  a  sudden  impulse — "  I  will  give  to  you  the 
task  of  discovering  for  me  a  honeymoon  resort. 
Let  it  be  some  secluded  hotel — not  too  secluded — 
in  some  seaside  place  where  there  are  not  too 
many  tourists,  so  that  we  shall  not  have  to  pick 
our  way  through  gingerbeer  bottles,  and  confec- 
tionery bags.  Don't  worry  yourself  about  pasting 
any  more  clippings  in  my  scrap-book,  Crampton. 
Just  busy  yourself  with  my  honeymoon  resort, 
where  I  must  go  " — he  tried  to  repress  the  look 
that  came  into  his  eyes — "  a  week  from  to-day." 

'•A  week  from  to-day!"  echoed  Crampton  again. 
"  A  week  from  to-day." 

Presently  he  said  slowly,  "  Mr.  Rellerick,  what 
am  I  to  do  while  you  are  away  ?" 

While  he  was  away!  Reginald  was  unable  to 
realize  the  real  meaning  of  the  words.  While  he 
was  away,  honeymooning  with  Felicia  Halstead  ! 
What  was  Crampton  to  do  while  he  was  away? 
What  would  he  do  himself  ?  He  could  not  see  so 


262  His  Own  Image 

far  into  the  future,  and  yet — he  would  begin  being 
"  away "  in  a  week.  Eight  days  from  now  he 
would  be  "  away."  It  seemed  ridiculously  improb- 
able. Yet  it  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  He  would  be 
"  away  "  as  surely  as  he  was  now  in  London.  He 
could  not  help  smiling  at  the  ludicrous  audacity  of 
Crampton's  question. 

"You  will  do  as  you  please,"  he  answered. 
"  There  is  still  a  week  to  decide." 

"  I  suppose —  "the  secretary's  voice  faltered,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  whipping  himself  to  the  question 
— "  I  suppose  that  you  will  not  want  me  to  accom- 
pany you  ?" 

The  actor  stared  at  him  in  amazement.  He 
wondered  if  Crampton  were  taking  leave  of  his 
senses.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  not  want  you.  Al- 
though they  say  that  a  solitude  a  deux  becomes 
very  tiresome  — personally,  I  know  nothing  about 
it,  though  I  suspect  that '  they  '  are  right — I  do  not 
look  upon  you,  Crampton,  as  the  right  sort  of  per- 
son to  cheer  us  up.  With  the  best  of  intentions, 
one  could  not  call  you  lively.  And  I  shall  have  no 
duties  for  you  to  undertake.  There  will  be  no 
letters  to  write  or  to  answer.  You  can  remain  in 
London  until  you  hear  from  me.  Or,  if  you  care 
to  end  your  services  in  my  behalf  when  I  leave,  I 
will  release  you." 

He  spoke  lightly,  but  it  was  an  effort,  He  hated 
Crampton,  and  was  half  afraid  of  the  distrustful 
eyes  that  stared  at  him  so  pitilessly.  With  this 
taciturn  person  to  greet  him  when  he  resumed  his 
career,  he  would  always  feel  uncomfortable. 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  263 

There  would  invariably  be  references  to  Mrs.  Rel- 
lerick,  and  a  tender  solicitude  for  her  welfare.  He 
would  prefer  a  myrmidon  to  whom  his  past  was  un- 
known. Crampton  had  been  very  valuable  to  him. 
All  his  most  famous  "  addresses,"  and  his  most 
widely  discussed  magazine  articles  had  been  the 
work  of  Crampton.  But  he  was  sacrificing  so  much 
for  the  sake  of  his  career,  that  he  could  well  afford 
to  include  Crampton  in  the  sacrifice.  He  feared 
his  secretary.  He  did  not  dare  to  discharge  him 
pointedly. 

"  I  will  wait  for  you,"  said  Crampton  slowly.  "  I 
will  be  in  London  when  you  return." 

He  shuffled  away,  with  ambling,  awkward  steps, 
each  long  arm  a  pendulum  swaying  at  his  side. 
He  had  grown  singularly  non-acquiescent,  Reginald 
thought.  But  he  soon  forgot  Crampton.  Cramp- 
ton  was  a  mere  detail — just  a  spot  on  the  web,  and 
nothing  more. 

That  evening  he  went  to  Netting  Hill,  deter- 
mined to  do  his  duty — the  duty  that  the  dead  De- 
jazet  had  emphazised  so  strongly.  It  was  a 
nauseous  pill  to  swallow,  but  there  would  be  others 
more  nauseous,  before  his  interrupted  career  could 
hope  to  reassert  itself  ?  Would  he  ever  again  be 
the  idol  of  London,  his  doings  the  pet  themes  of 
the  newspapers,  and  his  words  the  directions  for 
the  multitude  ?  He  tried  to  peer  into  the  future,  as 
he  sat  jolted  in  a  tight  omnibus,  on  his  way  to  Mrs. 
Landington's  retreat.  But  the  haze  was  thick  and 
impenetrable.  He  could  not  pierce  it.  Looming 
up  in  the  blackness,  he  could  always  detect  Dejazet. 


264  His  Own  Image 

It  was  invariably  Dejazet.     He   struggled  vainly 
against  this  eternal  obsession. 

Reginald  could  scarcely  induce  himself  to  ring 
the  respectable  brass  door-bell  that  decorated  the 
side  of  Felicia's  bower.  He  looked  impudently  at 
the  house  which  held  the  woman  whose  tentacles 
were  fastened  upon  his  life.  How  relentlessly 
matter-of-fact  it  all  was!  No  wonder  people 
clamoured  for  romance  and  excitement  at  the 
theatre,  when  their  daily  life  was  so  ugly  and 
colourless.  He  was  going  to  see  fair  Rosamund. 
He  had  dashed  up  to  the  bower  in  a  twopenny  bus, 
sandwiched  between  two  fat  women  with  shopping 
bags.  And  the  bower  was  a  cheap  suburban 
house,  with  eight  rooms  and  a  bath,  and  a  back 
door,  and  a  yard.  It  was  all  so  kif-kif—znd.  yet  he 
was  a  great  actor,  upon  whom  the  public  had  relied 
for  entertainment  and  self-oblivion.  The  bell 
rang  lustily  as  he  pulled  it.  He  gazed  into  the 
bower  through  a  "  frosted  "  pane  of  glass  in  the 
front  door.  The  steps  of  the  bower  had  been 
"  whitened  "  by  a  London  slavey,  at  twelve  pounds 
a  year  and  the  kitchen  fat,  and  in  the  window  at 
the  top  of  the  bower  he  could  see  the  looking-glass, 
at  which  the  slavey  brushed  her  hair,  and  removed 
the  smuts  from  her  face — if,  indeed,  she  ever  re- 
moved them.  This  was  Felicia's  bower,  and  a  very 
good  bower  he  had  thought  it,  when  it  had  served 
his  purposes  unobtrusively.  But  now,  she  was 
about  to  enter  his  life  as  the  only  means  of  saving 
that  life,  and  he  sniffed  contemptuously  at  the 
bower,  and  hated  himself  for  being  so  close  to  it. 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  265 

"  Why,  it's  Mr.  Rellerick,"  said  Mrs.  Landington 
joyously,  as  she  opened  the  door,  and  wiped  her 
mouth  upon  her  apron — not  because  she  needed  to 
do  it,  but  because  lower-class  London  matrons 
always  wipe  their  mouths  upon  their  aprons,  in 
emotional  moments.  "  I  do  declare  it's  Mr.  Reller- 
ick," she  continued.  "  I've  'card  the  good  news, 
sir,  and  I  congratulate  you,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
'eart.  She's  a  good,  dear  girl  is  Miss  'Alstead. 
And  she's  a  lucky  girl,  too,  I  say,  for  you've  been 
a  kind  employer,  sir,  and  you'll  be  a  good  'usband." 

Reginald  felt  sick  at  heart,  as  he  was  ushered 
into  the  parlour.  Why  had  he  come  ?  This  was 
surely  an  unnecessary  torture.  But  it  was  part  of 
his  duty,  the  "  duty  "  of  which  Dejazet  had  prated 
to  La  Chinoise.  The  ugly  farce  must  proceed. 
Felicia  was  taking  tea  with  a  couple  of  friends. 
They  were  girls  of  the  neighbourhood,  who  had 
"  dropped  in."  In  cities  one  has  to  live  in  "  neigh- 
bourhoods," and  they  mean  "  neighbours."  She  sat 
there  a  radiant  picture,  her  lovely  face  illumined, 
and  her  features  wreathed  in  animation.  It  was  a 
picture  that  all  London  would  have  loved  to  see, 
with  its  insipid  suburban  framing,  and  its  odd  con- 
trast of  cheap  respectability.  But  to  the  ego-ma- 
niac it  was  loathsome.  He  looked  at  the  tea,  in- 
stead of  at  the  divinely  sympathetic  face  of  the  girl 
who  presided  at  it.  Alas  !  that  face  was  powerless 
to  affect  him,  as  it  would  have  affected  others. 

And  the  tea  !  He  saw  shrimps  in  a  glass  dish, 
and  water-cress,  with  drops  of  freshness  on  it,  on  a 
plate.  His  eye  took  in  hunks  of  soggy  seed-cake, 


266  His  Own  Image 

and  mounds  of  plebeian  bread-and-butter.  She  was 
pouring  tea  from  a  dark  brown  teapot,  into  ugly 
cups  with  red  flowers  on  them,  and  on  the  plate  by 
her  side  was  half  a  muffin,  with  a  large  semicircle 
bitten  out  of  it.  This  was  his  affianced  wife — to 
be  his  in  one  week.  And  this  was  the  woman 
whom  London  was  willing  to  raise  up  in  his  stead 
— a  woman  with  no  soul,  but  with  a  soulless  ability 
to  act.  At  least  that  is  what  he  thought.  Morti- 
mer Branton  had  offered  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  week  to  this  unfledged  girl,  who  bit  semi- 
circles out  of  muffins,  and  poured  out  tea  for  the 
spinsters  of  the  neighbourhood.  His  heart  was  filled 
with  bitterness.  Of  what  use  is  a  reputation  when 
it  can  be  intruded  upon  by  such  a  substitute? 

"  Reginald  !"  she  cried,  putting  down  the  teapot, 
and  rushing  up  to  kiss  him.  He  could  almost  taste 
the  buttered  muffin  on  her  lips.  "  You  dear  good 
boy  to  come.  I  had  almost  given  you  up.  You 
have  never  had  a  meal  here  before,  and  I'm  sorry 
that  Landy  didn't  provide  anything  nicer.  I  know 
you  would  sooner  have  seventeen  courses,  begin- 
ning at  oysters,  and  ending  at  coffee,  but — well,  this 
will  be  a  new  experience  to  you.  Sit  down,  and 
pretend  you  are  at  home." 

She  knew  that  he  hated  it,  and  she  was  secretly 
angry  at  those  stupid  girls  for  being  present.  She 
should  have  been  "  out  "  to  them,  or  have  dismissed 
them  early.  But  Felicia  had  longed  to  pour  the 
story  of  her  happiness  into  feminine  ears,  and  she 
had  hailed  her  visiting  neighbours.  What  did  it 
matter  to  her  that  they  were  merely  Miss  Robinson 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  267 


and  Miss  Smithson  ?  But  now — she  felt  thoroughly 
vexed  about  it.  The  introductions  were  made,  and 
the  great  actor  bowed  to  the  suburban  nobodies. 
The  nobodies  were  delighted.  Miss  Robinson  in- 
sisted that  Mr.  Rellerick  must  sit  by  Felicia,  be- 
cause they  were  'engaged.  And  Miss  Smithson 
playfully  asked  if  they  should  withdraw,  and  leave 
the  lovers  alone.  Miss  Robinson  thought  that  it 
must  be  lovely  to  be  engaged,  and  Miss  Smithson 
asked  pointed  questions  about  true  lovers'  knots 
and  "  Mizpah  "  rings.  There  was  no  need  for 
either  Reginald  or  Felicia  to  utter  a  word.  The 
nobodies  kept  up  an  endless  chatter,  anent  the 
pomp  and  ceremony  of  marriage. 

"  To  think,"  said  the  one,  "  that  it  will  take 
place  a  week  from  to-day.  I  shall  have  to  buy 
Felicia  a  ready-made  present  instead  of  working 
her  a  table-centre,  as  I  should  like  to  have  done." 

"  You  are  impetuous  people,"  chirruped  the 
other,  "  but  I  suppose  that  true  love  knows  no  rea- 
son. Oh  Felicia,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  beg  Mr. 
Rellerick  to  take  you  for  your  honeymoon  to 
Ramsgate.  The  hotels  there  are  always  full  of 
newly  married  people.  It's  such  fun  looking  at 
them.  If  you  go  to  Ramsgate  I  shall  really  be 
tempted  to  follow." 

Simple,  unsophisticated,  suburban  maidens ! 
Felicia  sighed  as  she  realized  their  discordant 
notes.  Yes,  she  could  have  found  it  in  her  heart 
to  wish  that  the  lordly  actor,  trying  to  separate  a 
shrimp  from  its  shell  (and  failing)  was  nothing  but 
a  "  young  man,"  with  none  of  the  exotic  qualities 


268  His  Own  Image 

that  in  her  heart  she  despised.  If  the  fatiguing 
parade  in  front  of  other  people  had  only  ended  for 
him  when  the  final  curtain  fell !  If  he  could  have 
rushed  from  the  gilded  salons  of  the  playhouse  and 
found  pleasure  in  the  simple  comfort  of  the  suburbs, 
how  much  easier  it  would  have  been  for  them- 
But  the  actor  becomes  absorbed  by  the  scenes  that 
he  mimics,  and  she  knew  that  only  too  well.  Still 
— and  she  cleared  away  her  sighs — she  would  not 
like  him  if  he  were  different.  He  was  her  ideal — 
just  as  he  was  Perhaps  if  he  enjoyed  shrimps  and 
seed-cake  he  would  lose  the  glamour  that  sur- 
rounded him. 

Reginald  felt  more  at  his  ease  when  the  nobodies 
told  him  how  they  doted  upon  him  as  an  actor  ; 
how  they  had  waited  at  the  pit-doors  for  hours, 
every  time  that  he  produced  a  new  play  ;  how  they 
saw  him  a  dozen  times  in  every  role  that  he  essayed. 
This  was  more  pleasing  to  his  ears  than  the  sense- 
less orange-blossom  cackle  that  brought  him  so 
close  to  his  agony. 

"  But  in  your  last  play,"  said  Miss  Robinson, 
with  a  coy  finger  raised,  "  I  will  frankly  confess 
that  I  was  more  interested  in  this  dear,  good  girl, 
Felicia.  It  would  have  been  dreadful  for  you,  Mr. 
Rellerick,  if  you  had  married  a  novice.  Fancy  the 
two  of  you,  always  being  able  to  play  opposite 
parts,  and  each  adored  by  the  audience." 

"  It  isn't  often  that  stage  honors  are  divided  so 
charmingly,"  chirped  Miss  Smithson.  "  It  is  like 
Irving  and  Ellen  Terry.  But  I  often  think  that 
Miss  Terry  could  get  along  very  nicely  without 


Shrimps  and  Watercress  269 

Irving,  but  that  he  would  be  useless  without 
her." 

"  You  are  silly  girls,"  said  Felicia — she  did  not 
dare  to  look  at  the  face  of  her  lover.  "  I  shall 
never  be  a  great  actress,  because  I  don't  care  about 
acting.  It  wouldn't  vex  me  in  the  least  if  I  never 
appeared  again,  and  I  shall  coax  Reginald,  in  all 
probability,  to  give  me  a  long  holiday  for  life." 

She  looked  at  him,  when  she  had  finished.  His 
face  was  stern  and  set.  There  were  crows'  feet 
around  his  eyes,  and  even  at  that  squalid  little  tea- 
table,  amid  the  shrimps  and  water-cresses,  he  looked 
yellow  and  unreal  and  heavy — like  the  waxen  De- 
jazet  in  the  Marylebone  Road.  He  tried  to  shake 
it  off.  The  time  had  not  yet  come  when  he  could 
dare  to  assert  himself.  He  assumed  a  light  mood, 
but  it  was  more  difficult  to  assume  than  that  of  any 
role  he  had  ever  played. 

It  was  a  melancholy  evening — but  it  was  the  first 
step  on  the  awful  ladder  that  he  was  to  mount  be- 
fore he  could  see  his  cherished  career  again.  He 
might  possibly  be  able  to  climb  the  rest  of  the  lad- 
der. He  felt  quite  sure  that  he  would  be  able  to 
do  so.  He  intended  to  do  his  duty  ;  he  was  quite 
sure  of  that.  The  bitter  pill  must  be  swallowed, 
and  it  was  just  as  well  for  him  to  get  some  idea  of 
what  it  was  going  to  taste  like.  It  was  going  to 
taste  very  nasty  indeed,  but  there  was  everything 
at  stake.  He  cursed  her,  as  she  sat  there  with  her 
spinsters,  and  he  cursed  the  day  when  he  had  first 
seen  her.  But  it  was  waste  of  time.  Everything 
was  arranged.  The  loophole  through  which  he 


270  His  Own  Image 

would  emerge  was  open.  He  had  opened  it,  and 
he  must  try  to  feel  thankful  for  its  possibilities. 
Perhaps  he  would  live  to  laugh  at  this  watercress 
tea,  and  to  look  back  upon  all  these  agonies  as  a 
nightmare  that  would  never  be  resumed. 

He  arose  to  go  before  the  nobodies  had  attempted 
to  depart.  He  was  not  anxious  for  another  tt$e-a- 
t$te  with  Felicia.  That  which  was  to  begin  in  one 
short  week  was  all  that  i.e  could  endure.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  the  nobodies  were  disappointed  in 
him.  All  girls  love  a  lover,  and  Reginald  Rellerick 
had  not  played  his  role  convincingly.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  originality  in  love-making.  The  good 
old  fever  must  take  its  course  in  the  good  old  way. 
The  "  ars  amatoria  "  of  Ovid's  day  has  reached 
the  twentieth  century,  without  suffering  the  vestige 
of  a  change. 

As  he  left  the  house,  he  swore  [that  he  would 
see  La  Chinoise  the  next  day.  He  would  see  her, 
if  only  to  tell  her  that  everything  must  be  at  an 
end  between  them.  And  he  thought — as  a  gour- 
mand thinks  of  an  epicurean  dish — of  her  tears — 
all  for  him  ;  of  her  agony — all  for  him  ;  and  of  her 
certain  determination  not  to  relinquish  her  second 
Dejazet — all  for  him.  Yes,  there  was  a  whiff  of 
pleasure  in  store  for  him,  before  he  allowed  his 
career  to  swallow  everything.  But  he  would  do 
his  duty  ;  he  really  would.  So  far,  he  felt  rather 
pleased  with  himself. 


Chapter  XVIII 

"ONE  LAST  KISS,"   SAID  THE  SIREN 

As  Reginald  Rellerick  entered  La  Chinoise's  or- 
nate villa  in  St.  John's  Wood  from  the  front, 
Cerisette  left  it  surreptitiously  from  the  back.  La 
Chinoise  had  not  abandoned  her  old  friends — there 
wasn't  a  man  in  London  good  enough  to  induce 
her  to  do  it,  she  often  said — but  she  knew  ex- 
tremely well  that  the  fastidious  actor  would  not 
admit  the  feminine  souvenirs  of  her  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cusdom,  and  she  could  not  afford  to  take  risks. 
She  was  a  wise  woman  in  her  generation.  More- 
over, she  was  no  longer  young,  and  maturity  is 
obliged  to  look  before  it  leaps.  So  the  interchange 
of  confidences  between  La  Chinoise  and  Cerisette 
ceased,  as  the  former,  peering  through  the  cur- 
tains, saw  her  protector  approach,  and  Cerisette 
went  out  at  the  back  as  Reginald  came  in  at  the 
front. 

She  received  her  "petit  Ddjazet  "  with  a  charm- 
ing affectation  of  nonchalance,  and  Reginald  con- 
trasted this  entrance  with  that  which  he  had  made 
the  day  before  in  the  Netting  Hill  house.  Here 
it  was  warm,  luxurious,  unstudied,  and  tinted. 
Felicia  in  her  "  tidy  "  gown,  with  an  immaculate 

[271] 


272  His  Own  Image 

bodice,  neat  collar  and  cuffs,  and  generally  middle- 
class  atmosphere,  had  repelled  him.  La  Chinoise, 
in  an  indescribable  peignoir,  all  lace  and  little  jig- 
gly  bows,  her  tiny  feet  pushed  into  a  pair  of  em- 
broidered Persian  slippers,  was  a  pleasing  spectacle 
to  enjoy.  She  might  be  an  exotic,  and  Reginaid 
told  himself  that,  when  a  man  attains  his  fourth  de- 
cade, the  watercress  damsel  palls.  Felicia  sug- 
gested long  walks  before  breakfast,  cold  baths  and 
absolute  health.  La  Chinoise  told  of  the  orna. 
mental,  pictorial  femininity  that  some  natures  pre- 
fer. He  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  greeted  him. 
Like  Felicia,  she  was  also  pouring  out  tea — but  the 
tea  service  sat  daintily  on  an  absurd  little  table, 
and  it  was  "  egg-shell  "  china,  furnished  with  curi- 
ous little  handles. 

"  I  did  not  expect  you,"  she  said  coquettishly,  as 
he  embraced  her  (and  there  was  no  buttered  muffin 
on  her  lips),  "  and  I  did  not  particularly  want  you 
to-day.  Why  did  you  come  ?" 

This  was  what  he  liked,  and  she  probably  knew 
it.  He  hated  to  be  jumped  at  with  words  of  wel- 
come, and  kissed  smackingly  on  each  cheek.  He 
preferred  the  senseless  coquetries  of  the  diplomatic 
woman,  as  warped  men  usually  prefer  such  coquet- 
ries. 

"  I  came  to  see  you,"  he  said,  "because  I  have 
something  very  important  to  tell  you — something," 
he  sank  his  voice  to  a  mournful  whisper — "  that  it 
will  pain  you  to  hear." 

The  women  belonging  to  La  Chinoise's  class  are 
always  prepared  for  the  worst.  They  expect  it, 


"One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  273 

and  are  surprised  when  it  doesn't  come.  La 
Chinoise  was  not  in  the  least  affected.  She  arose, 
and  poured  boiling  water  from  the  gypsy  kettle 
into  the  fragile  teapot. 

"  You  must  drink  some  tea,"  she  said,  "  before 
you  make  yourself  unpleasant.  I  know  what  you 
are  going  to  tell  me.  You  have  discovered  that 
this  dear  little  place  is  too  expensive.  Of  course,  I 
know  that.  That  is  why  I  like  it.  I  can  survive 
that,  tnon  De/azet,  as  long  as  you  love  me — and  as 
long  as  you  do  not  cast  me  off." 

She  handed  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  sat  at  his  feet  on 
the  white  rug,  as  he  tried  to  drink  it.  Her  face 
was  lighted  with  what  seemed  to  be  the  most  undi- 
luted sort  of  affection.  She  sank  into  involuntary 
silence.  There  was  no  anxiety  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say.  Her  pose  was  that  of  a  woman  simply 
exuding  unselfish  affection.  Reginald  sipped  his 
tea  in  slow  epicureanism.  How  delightful  it  was 
to  rest  amid  such  surroundings!  Even  the  knowl- 
edge that,  in  a  few  short  moments,  he  must  virtu- 
ously push  her  aside,  and  shatter  her  hopes,  was  a 
sort  of  melancholy  pleasure.  Poor  thing  !  How 
horrible  for  one  solitary  woman  to  find  her  life  in- 
truded upon  by  a  brace  of  Dejazets.  She  had 
lived  through  the  misery  of  her  first  disaster. 
Would  she  survive  the  second  ?  Could  she  survive 
the  second,  when  he  was  the  second  ? 

And  he  sipped  his  tea,  as  though  it  were  nectar, 
gazing  all  the  time  upon  the  top  of  her  head.  A 
man  never  feels  so  puissant,  so  masterful,  so  abso- 
lutely one  of  the  sterner  sex,  and  so  unconsciously 


274  His  Own  Image 

noble,  as  when  he  is  looking  at  the  top  of  a  woman's 
head.  Possibly  she  had  sat  thus  with  Dejazet  when 
the  artist  had  told  her  of  his  contemplated  mar- 
riage with  Genevieve  Delaunay.  But  the  surround- 
ings were  different.  Here  it  was  a  hothouse  in  the 
hothouse  quarter  of  London.  There  it  was  the 
cold,  Bohemian,  Latin  region,  all  students,  and  bread 
crusts,  and  poverty.  Yes,  he  had  advantages. 
The  original  Dejazet  was  less  fortunate.  Women 
loved  comfort  and  opulence.  What  he  had  to  tell 
her  would  be  a  bitter  blow  to  her.  Would  she 
faint  ?  Would  she  seize  the  Japanese  sharply- 
pointed  paper-knife  that  lay  upon  a  table,  and  stab 
herself  a  la  Bernhardt  ?  The  idea  was  not  displeas- 
ing to  him,  but  still,  from  a  sense  of  duty,  he  would 
prevent  it  if  possible.  He  reached  out  to  the 
table,  and  taking  up  the  knife,  felt  its  edge,  and 
quietly  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  mon  petit  f"  she  asked, 
lifting  her  fluffy  head  from  his  knee.  "  Why  do 
you  take  my  knife  ?  Are  you  afraid  that  I  am  go- 
ing to  commit  suicide  ?  Alas  !  my  poor  little  D6- 
jazet,  I  am  not  that  kind  of  woman.  If  I  were,  I 
should  have  done  the  deed  long  ago.  There  have 
been  many  '  situations  '  in  my  life,  that  could  have 
led  up  to  it." 

He  was  conscious  of  a  slight  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment. It  would  have  been  a  distinct  satisfaction 
to  the  ego-maniac,  to  see  the  woman  whom  he 
loved,  and  whom  D6jazet  had  loved,  in  the  throes 
of  a  suicidal  determination.  Every  actor  loves  a 
dash  of  melodrama,  and  to  Reginald  this  would 


"  One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  275 

have  added  to  the  sorrowful  piquancy  of  the  occa- 
sion. 

"  You  would  not  do  anything  so  foolish,  I  feel 
sure,"  he  said  reluctantly.  "You  are  sensible, 
Claire,  and  as  you  say,  your  life  has  not  been  a 
very  radiant  one.  I  only  wish  I  could  have  made 
it  so,  at  this  late  day,  but — circumstances  forbid 
it." 

She  was  curious,  at  last,  for  she  felt  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  Her  keen  eyes  took  in  the  sump- 
tuous apartment  she  occupied.  She  noted  the 
richly  embroidered  stuffs  that  hung  from  the  doors, 
the  oddly  fashioned  furniture,  the  magnificent  car- 
pet, the  ornaments  that  decorated  the  cabinets,  the 
mantel,  and  the  numerous  shelves.  Still,  she  told 
herself  that  this  was  a  peculiar  man,  filled  with  pe- 
culiar ideas,  and  she  steeled  her  heart.  In  her  face 
there  was  nothing  but  complete  confidence  in  him. 
She  took  a  chair  opposite  to  him,  and  gazed  gravely 
at  his  face.  It  was  very  dark  and  grief-worn.  She 
began  to  fear  the  worst,  and  it  was  hard  work  to  be 
tranquil  and  insouciant e,  as  she  took  his  empty  cup 
away  from  him,  folded  her  hands,  and  waited  for 
her  doom.  She  had  known  so  many  of  these 
dooms,  but  each  seemed  worse  than  its  predecessor. 
It  is  impossible  to  grow  accustomed  to  a  continu- 
ous performance  of  disappointments. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  began  :  "  You  saw 
that  little  girl  we  met  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  Claire, 
when  we  were  looking  at  Dejazet,  and  enjoying 
our  first  happiness." 

La  Chinoise  remembered   her   extremely  welL 


276  His  Own  Image 

It  was  her  business  to  do  so.  "  That  little  English 
miss,  with  the  Christmas-card  face,  and  the  badly- 
fitting  clothes.  The  girl  with  features  like  an 
angel,  and  the  outfit  of  a  rubbish-basket.  Yes,  I 
saw  her.  How  could  I  forget  her,  when  you  sent 
me  away  from  you,  to  join  her?  She  was  your 
leading  lady,  you  said." 

"  Yes,"  he  assented  dully.  "  She  was  my  leading 
lady." 

He  could  not  continue.  There  was  a  clot  in  his 
throat  that  choked  him.  He  felt  like  a  coward, 
about  to  dash  the  happiness  from  a  woman  who 
adored  him.  He  put  himself  in  her  place  perpetually. 
He  could  imagine  no  worse  fate  for  a  woman,  than 
that  of  being  suddenly  cut  off  from  association 
with  himself.  His  ego-maniacal  instinct  almost 
rendered  him  unselfish.  t 

"  Well  ?"  said  La  Chinoise  expectantly.  "  What 
of  it  ?  She  looks  like  a  harmless  poor  thing." 

'•  I  hate  her,"  he  cried  vehemently,  rising  and 
steering  himself  through  the  alleys  of  chairs  and 
tables  and  palms.  "  I  hate  her.  I  am  sick  of  her. 
She  is  nauseating  to  me.  I  cannot  endure  her 
baby  ways,  and  her  incessant  exactions.  She  is  the 
one  force  in  my  life  that  I  abominate.  The  idea 
of  meeting  her  day  after  day  is  horrible  to  me,  and 
yet ?r- 

La  Chinoise  was  silent  in  thought.  Then  she 
said  laughingly — for  it  seemed  too  impossible  to 
believe :  "  One  would  think  that  this  was  the  story 
of  Dejazet  all  over  again  ;  that  irate  parents  in- 
sisted upon  your  marrying  her,  and  that  you  would 


"  One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  277 

he  led  to  the  altar  almost  at  the  sword's  point. 
But  this  is  chilly,  cloudy,  foggy,  unromantic  Eng- 
land, nest-ce-pas?" 

He  would  be  brave.  He  must  do  it.  There  was 
no  use  prolonging  the  agony  any  more.  Agony  it 
was,  of  course,  but  it  had  a  silver  coating,  and  he 
would  not  have  abandoned  this  hour,  if  he  could 
have  done  it. 

"  It  is  the  story  of  Dejazet,"  he  said  slowly,  and 
he  almost  felt  the  glass  eyes  of  the  image  in  the 
Marylebone  Road  looking  at  him  through  the  dis- 
tance. "  There  are  no  parents  in  the  case.  There 
is  no  duel  to  be  fought,  but  I  am  going  to  marry 
that  girl,  and  I  have  come  here  .to-day  to  tell 
you  so." 

He  looked  round  to  see  if  she  were  prostrate 
upon  the  carpet.  But  she  was  not.  She  sat  idly 
playing  with  the  lace  of  her  peignoir,  her  brows 
knitted  in  thought.  You  or  I — who  are  inclined  to 
think  that  there  are  other  people  in  the  world  be- 
sides ourselves — might  have  regarded  that  medita- 
tion as  something  with  clammy  calculation  in  it. 
The  actor  could  see  no  calculation.  She  was  dis- 
traught, and  he  waited  in  keenest  anxiety  for  her 
mind  to  arrange  itself. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  slowly — and  her  extreme  effort 
to  be  seemly,  and  to  avoid  all  false  steps  was  not 
apparent  to  him.  "  It  is  certainly  droll  that  there 
should  be  two  Dejazets  in  my  life.  But  this  case 
is  different.  It  is  quite  dissimilar.  If  you  marry 
this  girl,  whom  you  hate,  why  need  it  make  any 
difference  to  us  ?  I  can  stay  here  in  St.  John's 


278  His  Own  Image 

Wood,  and  I  will  still  look  upon  you  as  my  dearest 
friend  and  champion." 

This  was  tentative,  but  he  did  not  know  it.  "  I 
came  here  to-day,"  he  continued,  "  to  tell  you  that 
our  relations  must  end.  I  love  you,  Claire.  It 
will  be  one  of  the  cruellest  blows  dealt  me,  to  sep- 
arate from  you.  But  it  must  be  done.  My  duty  is 
clear,  is  it  not  ?" 

Claire  forgot  herself  for  the  moment.  "  Why  is 
it  clear  ?"  she  asked  angrily.  "  It  was  clear  in  De- 
jazet's  case,  but  he  was  a  different  man.  He  was 
an  artist,  with  a  chivalrous  nature,  and  he  gave  me 
up,  filled  with  a  sort  of  Quixotic  notion  that  he  was 
unable  to  carry  out.  With  you,  it  is  otherwise." 

"  With  me  it  is  otherwise,"  cried  the  ego-maniac, 
roused  to  self-defense,  in  a  bitter  effort  to  be  as 
symmetrical  as  his  counterpart.  "  Am  I  indeed 
worse  than  this  man  who  poses  in  a  Chamber  of 
Horrors,  as  the  newest  of  the  horrors  ?  He  was  so 
chivalrous !  He  was  so  Quixotic !  It  was  noble 
for  him  to  give  up  the  woman  he  loved,  and  tie  him- 
self to  the  woman  he  married.  But  with  me  it  is 
different.  I  am  not  chivalrous  !  I  am  not  Quix- 
otic !  I  can  easily  do  what  this  criminal  scorned  to 
do.  You  can  think  of  De"jazet  tenderly,  as  a  mar- 
tyr. But  I  am  different.  And,  pray,  what  has  in- 
duced you  to  think  that  I  am  different  ?" 

He  stopped  in  front  of  her,  furiously  wrestling 
for  his  own  cause.  He  looked  upon  the  woman 
with  much  of  the  anger  that  he  usually  vented  upon 
Felicia  Halstead.  She  was  unable  to  credit  him 
with  the  decent  motives  that  had  actuated  the  dead 


"One  Last  Kiss/' said  the  Siren  279 

De"jazet,  and  his  indignation  knew  no  bounds. 
She  saw  that  she  had  made  a  mistake — that  her  cal- 
culations had  miscarried.  That  the  evil  was  irre- 
mediable, she  did  not  believe.  That  he  would  leave 
her  was  tolerably  certain,  for  his  miserable  compe- 
tition with  the  dead  original  was  clear  to  her.  But 
the  cases  were  different.  They  were  certainly  dif- 
ferent. Dejazet  was  a  struggler  and  a  Bohemian 
of  the  old-fashioned  type.  This  man  in  front  of 
her,  with  the  exotic  ideas,  was  a  Bohemian  of  the 
new-fashioned  type — a  Bohemian  who  could  "  rough 
it  "  only  on  quilted  silken  couches,  with  costly  ac- 
cessories. The  cause  was  not  at  all  hopeless. 

La  Chinoise,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  threw  her- 
self upon  a  sofa  and  sobbed.  She  had  carefully  re- 
moved the  pins  from  her  hair,  and  it  fell  in  a  mass 
over  her  shoulders.  Her  attitude  was  that  of  abso- 
lute abandonment  to  an  almost  masterful  grief. 
She  knew  that  he  was  watching  her,  and  that  she 
made  an  artistic  picture.  It  was  not  all  assumed. 
She  was  genuinely*  distressed  at  the  unexpected 
turn  that  things  had  taken.  It  seemed  that  the 
fates  were  against  her.  She  could  never  make  any 
headway  against  the  turbulent  seas  of  her  life. 
Tantalus-like,  the  cup  was  always  snatched  from 
her  lips,  as  she  was  about  to  drink.  She  wept  for 
herself,  but  the  effect  upon  him  was  agreeable.  His 
sarcasms  died  upon  his  lips,  and  he  saw  only  the 
woman,  prone,  and  tear-drenched,  bewailing  his 
loss. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said  presently,  drying  her 
eyes,  "  and  do  not  reproach  me.  De\jazet  was  lost 


280  His  Own  Image 

to  me,  and  I  dread  a  repetition  of  that  misery. 
Forgive  me  for  ever  suggesting  that  you  would  do 
what  he  disdained.  If  he  was  good,  you  are  bet- 
ter "  (she  might  have  added  "  because  you  are 
richer,"  but  didn't),  "  and  I  apologize  to  you  for  my 
unworthy  ideas.  Oh,  mon  petit,  je  suis  dtsotie.  I 
would  say,  as  I  said  to  him,  '  You  shall  not  marry 
this  girl,'  and  I  would  search  London  for  proofs  of 
her  infamy.  But — oh  !  how  well  I  remember  it — 
it  was  that  very  search  of  mine  in  De"  jazet's  case, 
that  brought  about  the  disaster.  I  would  not  do  it 
again.  I  discovered  that  she  was  his  rival.  It  could 
not  be,  in  your  case,  and  I  would  not  tell  you,  if  I 
knew  that  it  was.  I  have  reproached  myself  ever 
since." 

There  was  the  ring  of  sincerity 'in  these  last 
words,  but  to  him  the  false  and  the  sincere  sounded 
alike,  inasmuch  as  they  both  catered  to  his  own 
vanity.  The  maggots  of  his  endless  self-love  fed 
easily  upon  everything  that  she  said.  But  he 
started  as  she  spoke  of  the  "  disaster  "  that  her 
work  had  hastened.  He  started,  and  trembled, 
and  as  he  stood  before  her,  erect  and  immobile,  he 
felt  that  she  was  a  mob  of  women,  gazing  at  him, 
and  commenting  upon  him.  Once  more  he  seemed 
to  be  No.  37  in  the  catalogue — yellow  and  sinister. 

"You  could  discover  nothing  about  Felicia,"  he 
said  at  last,  resolutely  pushing  aside  these  ideas. 
"  You  could  not  tell  me  that  she  is  my  rival.  I 
know  that  she  is.  I  discovered  it  for  myself." 

La  Chinoise  sat  up,  and  her  eyes  looked  like 
those  of  an  owl,  in  their  solemnity  and  darkness. 


"  One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  281 

"  Then,"  she  said  falteringly,  "  You  hate  her — quite 
as  he  hated  her.  It  is  impossible.  It  is  beyond 
the  natural.  Grand  del !  Quel  horreur  /" 

He  might  have  been  a  somnambulist,  a  man  in  a 
hypnotic  condition,  as  he  sang  dreamily  :  "  I  have 
lost  everything.  I  must  marry  this  girl,  and  you 
and  I  must  end  our  relations.  I  will  try  and  do  my 
duty.  Perhaps  I  have  been  a  brute.  I  hate  her 
now,  but,  possibly,  when  she  is  my  wife,  bearing  my 
name,  I  may  become  at  any  rate  more  reconciled 
to  my  life." 

Claire  heard  him,  as  though  dazed.  It  sounded 
like  an  echo  of  the  past,  translated  into  English. 
The  real  woman  in  her  nature  leaped  into  life  for 
an  instant,  and  forgetful  of  herself,  oblivious  of  the 
ruin  of  her  prospects,  she  sprang  from  her  chair,  and 
cried  out,  "  You  shall  not  marry  this  woman.  I 
will  prevent  it.  It  shall  not  be  permitted.  I 
swear  it." 

The  ego-maniac  was  satisfied.  Unable  to  realize 
the  intensity  of  the  words  she  uttered,  and  the  rea- 
son for  their  utterance,  he  accepted  them  blindly 
as  proof  that  she  loved  him  as  she  had  loved  D£- 
jazet.  A  dulcet  self-complacency  crept  into  his 
face.  He  was  reinstated  in  his  own  self-affection. 
The  rest  was  easy. 

"  Claire,"  he  said  peacefully,  "  It  is  all  over.  I 
must  marry,  and  you  shall  not  prevent  it.  Be  rea- 
sonable, my  dear  one.  He  left  you  to  the  fate  that 
brought  you  to  the  painted  atrocities  of  Piccadilly 
Circus.  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  have 
told  me  that  in  reality  I  am  better  than  Dejazet. 


282     f  His  Own  Image 

I  will  show  you  that  you  were  right.  I  am  not 
what  the  world  calls  rich,  but  I  shall  do  what  I  can. 
Before  coming  here  to-day,  I  instructed  my  lawyers 
to  buy  this  house  for  you.  Within  a  week,  it  will 
be  yours  for  life,  and  you  will  be  beyond  the  clutches 
of  immediate  want.  The  furniture  I  have  already 
presented  to  you.  I  hate  to  make  the  gift.  It 
seems  like  a  bargain,  but,  my  dear,  it  will  be  some 
relief  to  me  to  know  that  you  are  provided  for,  and 
although  it  will  not  compensate  you  for  my  loss — 
it  will—" 

He  broke  down,  touched  by  the  harrowing 
picture  of  his  own  magnanimity.  How  splendidly 
he  had  behaved.  What  quiet  force,  and  resolute 
self-sacrifice  there  were  in  his  words.  He  had 
never  been  fonder  of  himself  than  he  was  at  this 
moment.  But  he  had  not  reckoned  upon  such  a  re- 
sult as  came  almost  immediately,  and  he  could 
scarcely  credit  it.  The  courtesan,  suddenly  reared 
up  by  his  words,  took  the  place  of  the  woman  who 
had  threatened  to  prevent  his  marriage.  The  cosy 
little  house  in  St.  John's  Wood,  thrown  into  her 
lap,  as  it  were,  banished  forever  the  heroic  dregs 
that  had  struggled  to  the  top  for  one  moment,  in 
the  outcast's  nature.  The  house,  the  furniture, 
were  hers  for  life,  without  the  incubus  of  an  exact- 
ing protector.  La  Chinoise  struggled  to  her  feet, 
and  hurled  thanks  at  his  head — thanks  that  pro- 
claimed her  in  her  true  colours — thanks  that  over- 
whelmed him  with  humiliation. 

And  when  the  effervescence  of  her  gratitude  had 
subsided,  she  said  quietly,  "  You  were  right,  man 


"One  Last  Kiss,"  said  the  Siren  283 

Dfy'azet.  It  is  an  odious  thing  to  separate,  but  it 
must  be  done.  And  in  time,  my  darling  Reginald, 
you  will  grow  to  love  this  girl.  She  will  bear  you 
children,  and  she  will  be  true  to  you.  T.hat  much 
of  her  character  I  could  read  when  we  met  her  at 
the  wax-works.  I  shall  grieve  for  you  always, 
Reginald.  I  shall  never  forget  you.  Your  gifts 
will  not  compensate  me  for  your  love,  but,  as  you 
say,  it  is  something  to  be  provided  for,  and  I  must 
be  satisfied." 

She  smiled,  and  although  she  tried  to  inject  a 
wistful  expression  into  her  features,  it  was  not  pos- 
sible. She  was  plainly  radiant,  and  at  peace.  She 
threw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  tried  to  sob,  but 
even  as  she  did  so,  he  could  see  her  in  the  mirror 
opposite,  looking  at  the  pictures,  the  furniture,  and 
the  hangings,  and  mentally  saying  a  gratified  "  All 
mine." 

He  shook  her  from  him  in  a  rage  of  despair  and 
disenchantment,  which  she  did  not  understand. 
He  was  horribly  in  earnest,  this  poor  petit  Dfjazet, 
who  was  richer,  and  consequently  more  generous 
than  the  other.  And  as  she  tried  to  soothe  him, 
her  words  stung  him,  and  her  glad  reconciliation 
to  life  without  him,  stabbed  him  in  the  tender  region 
of  self. 

He  was  deserted — deserted  by  the  woman  who 
had  loved  the  thing  in  the  Marylebone  Road — 
deserted  because  he  had  cast  his  gifts  in  her  lap, 
and  because  with  her,  and  her  ilk,  it  was  all  a  ques- 
tion of  gifts.  It  was  complete  humiliation,  that 


284  His  Own  Image 

drove  him,  even  more  furiously  than  anything  else 
had  done,  into  the  web  spun  by  Felicia. 

"  One  last  kiss,"  said  the  siren,  grateful  for  her 
competence.  "  You  cannot  refuse  me  that." 

But  he  flung  her  rudely  aside  upon  the  quilted 
sofa  that  would  help  to  extinguish  the  tragedy  of 
his  loss.  He  stalked  from  the  house,  more  com- 
pletely crushed  than  he  had  ever  been,  and  as  he 
banged  the  front  door,  he  knew  that  he  had  banged 
from  his  life  a  parody  of  love  that  would  have  been 
apparent  to  the  merest  youth.  And  La  Chinoise, 
peering  through  the  curtains,  saw  him  go.  She 
laughed  quietly,  and  threw  herself  luxuriously  into 
a  chair. 

"  I  can't  afford  to  interfere  now,"  she  thought. 
"  I  am  settled  for  life.  And  he  will  probably  live 
happily  with  that  girl  for  ever.  Those  two  Dejazet 
stories,  similar  up  to  the  present,  must  separate  at 
some  time.  Ah,  mon  D(/azet,  you  have  brought 
me  peace  at  last." 


Chapter  XIX 


THE   MARRIAGE   PRELUDE 

IN  a  few  hours  the  wedding-day  would  dawn. 
Reginald,  tossing  about  on  his  big,  blue,  bed — his 
his  big,  blue,  solitary  bed,  for  the  last  time — tried 
vainly  to  sleep.  It  was  out  of  the  question.  His 
brain  was  alert  and  busy,  and  the  shadows  in  the 
room  might  have  been  alive,  as  they  bumped  them- 
selves against  him — absolute  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  his  self-forgetfulness.  The  night  was  intermina- 
ble. He  could  not  drive  from  his  mind  the  picture 
of  his  double — also  alone  with  the  shadows.  Be- 
fore another  sun  had  set  Reginald  would  be  miles 
away  from  London — miles  away  from  his  waxen 
counterpart.  An  almost  frantic  desire  to  look 
upon  the  yellow  D6jazet,  for  the  last  time,  took 
possession  of  him.  It  would  be  for  the  last  time. 
When  he  returned  to  London,  with  all  his  troubles 
in  the  background,  Madame  Tussaud's  would  be  to 
him  but  the  husk  of  a  hideous  memory.  But  he 
longed  to  see  how  he  looked  in  the  eyes  of  the  mob 
once  more,  and  then  cut  himself  resolutely  away 
from  his  obsession  forever.  He  would  like  to  gaze 
at  the  wax,  and  cry  "  Criminal !  Criminal !"  before 
it.  He  wished  to  see  if  he  could  hurl  this  epithet 

[285] 


286  His  Own  Image 

at  his  double,  without  wrenching  his  heart-strings. 
It  was  the  final  effort  of  the  ego-maniac  to  be  nor- 
mal. In  the  life  of  every  such  man  there  is  one 
fierce  struggle  to  be  as  his  fellows  are. 

Reginald  arose,  and  threw  on  his  clothes.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  what  he  was  going  to  do,  but 
he  was  desperate  and  unreasoning.  All  around 
him  he  saw  the  preparations  for  his  departure. 
There  was  his  portmanteau,  labelled  "Winder- 
mere."  It  was  at  Windermerethat  he  was  to  spend 
his  honeymoon.  Crampton  had  suggested  Winder- 
mere.  He  could  not  imagine  why.  It  was  a  long 
way  off — so  many  tearing,  merciless  miles  from 
London.  Reginald  looked  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece.  It  struck  two  o'clock.  He  would  be 
alone — alone  with  Felicia — with  Felicia,  his  wife — 
that  very  night.  He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of 
the  relentless  rush  of  events.  It  was  cold.  The 
unlived  hours  of  the  morning  are  usually  chilly  and 
devitalizing.  He  could  not  stand  the  horror  of  this 
silent,  almost  reproachful  house,  and  acting  on  the 
impulse  that  had  prompted  him  to  throw  on  his 
clothes,  he  rushed  out  into  the  street. 

He  trod  the  weary,  dreary  way  to  the  Maryle- 
bone  Road,  but  it  seemed  to  him  a  quick  and 
almost  invigorating  route.  How  often  had  he 
walked  there  before !  And  what  had  he  gained  by 
it  ?  Nothing  but  the  inspiration  to  justify  a  man 
whom  the  world  abhorred.  If  he  could  be  normal 
again !  He  almost  envied  the  poor  homeless 
wretches — the  sediment  of  metropolitan  life — who 
passed  him  on  his  way.  They  were  not  duplicated 


The  Marriage  Prelude  287 

in  wax  for  the  public  to  gaze  upon.  They  existed 
and  they  died,  and  nobody  cared.  For  an  instant 
he  wondered  if  fame  were  really  worth  while — if  it 
were  human — if  it  were  not  a  struggle  for  the  ab- 
normal, for  no  other  reason  than  to  be  abnormal. 

When  he  reached  the  hateful  building  in  the 
Marylebone  Road,  the  fever  of  its  colour  seemed  to 
have  disappeared.  It  looked  gray,  and  sombre,  as 
such  a  resort  for  ghosts  should  look.  The  desire 
to  enter  simply  overwhelmed  him.  Why  should 
this  museum  be  closed  at  its  most  interesting  mo- 
ment ?  Fantastic  ideas  of  a  carnival  of  criminals 
in  the  Chamber  of  Horrors  occurred  to  him.  If  he 
could  only  detect  his  Dejazet  in  undignified  orgies. 
Possibly  the  wax  that  stood  so  turgid  during  the 
day  relaxed  at  night.  Perhaps  Dejazet  came  down 
from  his  pedestal  at  night,  and  laid  siege  to  the 
waxen  hearts  of  Maria  Manning  and  Elizabeth 
Gibbons.  Perchance  the  luckless  hounded  artist 
leaped  from  his  thraldom  in  the  cavern  of  criminals, 
and  aspired  to  higher  things,  in  other  rooms,  with 
the  kings  and  queens.  What  if  the  "  horrors " 
revolted,  in  the  dead  hours  of  the  morning,  forced 
the  monarchs  and  celebrities  to  abdicate  their 
positions,  and  sat,  high  and  mighty,  in  the  haunts 
of  the  lucky  ones  ? 

There  was  a  dim  light  perceptible  through  one 
of  the  windows.  Prosaically,  Reginald  told  him- 
self that  workmen  were  making  repairs.  Even  in 
the  world  of  wax,  things  went  wrong  occasionally. 
The  actor  watched  the  light  as  though  it  were  his 
last  hope.  It  seemed  to  beckon  to  him  to  come  in. 


288  His  Own  Image 

and  make  himself  at  home.  As  he  looked  at  it,  it 
was  suddenly  extinguished,  and  a  little  old  man,  in 
an  overcoat  turned  up  at  the  collar,  let  himself  out 
of  a  tiny  door  at  the  side,  and  locked  it.  The 
workmen  had  gone,  and  the  watchman  had  made 
his  rounds. 

The  watchman  saw  the  eager,  fevered  actor,  and 
frowned.  "  I've  seen  you  here  before,"  he  said. 
"  It's  a  strange  hour  for  honest  folks  to  be  out  in. 
I  must  ask  you  to  move  on,  or  I  shall  call  a  police- 
man." 

"  No,"  murmured  Reginald  in  low  tones.  "  It 
is  not  necessary.  I  am  an  actor  studying  a  part. 
I  should  like  to  enter  for  a  few  minutes,  and  see 
how  the  waxworks  look  at  this  hour  of  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Impossible."  was  the  stern  retort.  "  You  had 
better  go  away.  There's  a  bobby  at  the  corner." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Reginald,  with  the  diplomacy 
of  desperation,  "  this  is  a  very  serious  matter  to 
me,  my  man.  If  you  let  me  in,  I  swear  to  you 
that  nobody  shall  be  any  the  wiser.  I  promise  you 
that  I  will  stay  five  minutes  only,  and — and — 
here's  a  five-pound  note  for  your  kindness.  That 
means  a  pound  a  minute.  You  don't  often  get 
such  good  pay,  I  imagine." 

The  obduracy  of  the  watchman  gave  way.  A 
five-pound  was  a  five-pound  note,  and — actors  were 
strange  people.  The  man  probably  spoke  the  truth. 
He  had  heard  of  Bernhardt  sleeping  in  her  coffin, 
for  the  sake  of  the  experience,  and  he  had  been 
told  of  several  ladies  who  had  visited  consumptive 


The  Marriage  Prelude  289 

patients  in  hospitals,  in  order  to  study  the  symp- 
toms. In  any  case,  a  five-pound  note  was  a  five- 
pound  note. 

He  turned  slowly,  and  unlocked  the  door.  The 
five-pound  note  crackled  in  his  fingers — there  is  no 
other  paper  money  that  crackles  so  musically — and 
he  beckoned  to  the  actor  to  follow  him. 

"Five  minutes,"  he  said.  "I  am  breaking  the 
rules,  sir,  but  you  are  paying  me  well  for  it.  Five 
minutes,  and  no  more." 

He  lighted  a  gas-jet  in  each  room,  and  led  the 
way  to  the  Chamber  of  Horrors,  at  the  instigation 
of  Rellerick. 

"  In  five  minutes  I  shall  be  back,"  he  said.  "  I 
will  leave  you  until  then." 

The  actor's  footsteps  clanked  over  the  deserted 
floors.  As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  a  dreadful  desire 
to  shriek  out  aloud,  seized  him.  He  seemed  to  feel 
the  obscurity  of  the  horrible  cavern.  The  waxen 
figures  in  their  draperies,  looked  like  corpses  in 
winding-sheets.  If  they  had  been  silent  and  un- 
fathomable in  the  day-time,  they  were  incompar- 
ably more  oppressively  taciturn  at  this  unexplored 
hour.  In  the  gloom  he  could  see  the  sere  out- 
lines of  their  faces,  and  the  dark  cavities  that  held 
their  glassy  eyes.  It  was  like  a  visit  to  a  sepulchre, 
and  the  actor's  blood  seemed  to  coagulate  in  his 
veins.  This  was  the  hall  that  echoed  the  cockney- 
ism  of  the  'Arries  and  'Arriets  of  the  metropolis. 
Now,  there  was  not  a  sound  alive  through  its  length 
and  breadth.  Reginald  could  almost  hear  himself 


290  His  Own  Image 

breathe.  The  noise  of  his  pumping  pulses  was  the 
only  real  issue  he  encountered. 

Dejazet  stood  there  with  the  others,  just  as  lugu- 
brious as  ever.  There  was  not  the  least  indica- 
tion of  illicit  revelry,  or  of  nocturnal  resurrection. 
The  figure  maintained  the  same  attitude  that  Reg- 
inald had  noted  previously.  It  looked  darker, 
more  deathlike,  more  uncanny,  in  these  watches  of 
the  night,  than  during  the  picnicking  hours  of 
daylight.  An  unoccupied  pedestal  stood  by  the 
side  of  Dejazet.  They  were  preparing  a  new  hor- 
ror, culled  from  the  sensationalism  of  the  day. 

Before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  Reginald 
leaped  upon  the  deserted  pedestal,  and  stood  by 
the  side  of  his  counterpart,  his  limbs  seeking  the 
same  attitude,  the  terror  of  his  expression  sinking 
into  the  unsightly  yellow  nothingness  of  the 
double.  And  as  he  stood  there,  his  own  identity 
seemed  to  wither  and  vanish.  He  was  Dejazet, 
indubitably.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  understood 
every  motive  that  had  actuated  the  poor  artist,  as 
he  had  never  understood  before.  He  wished  that 
the  doors  at  the  end  of  the  hall  would  suddenly 
frame  the  sight-seeing  mob  that  he  knew  so  well. 
He  longed  to  be  on  exhibition  by  the  side  of  his 
double,  and  to  hear  the  ribald  comments  of  the 
multitude. 

Then  he  recalled  his  intention  to  hurl  the  epithet 
of  "  Criminal !"  at  the  helpless  wax,  but  the  word 
burned  his  lips.  He  could  not  give  it  utterance. 
Instead,  he  would  have  liked  to  cry  "  Martyr !"  so 
that  every  image  in  the  room  could  hear  it ;  so 


The  Marriage  Prelude  291 

that  he  might  pose  as  the  champion  of  this  yellow, 
bloodless  thing,  that  could  no  longer  defend  itself. 

There  was  no  more  terror  for  him  in  his  sur- 
roundings. He  would  prefer  to  stay  where  he  was, 
and  be  catalogued  with  the  criminals.  They  were 
at  rest,  any  way.  There  was  no  further  contest  to 
worry  them.  The  rapt  attention  of  the  mob  was 
theirs  by  day  and  by  night.  Their  deeds  had  been 
sifted  and  classified.  Perhaps  the  watchman  would 
forget  him,  and  when  Felicia  went  to  the  church  to 
claim  him  as  her  own,  she  would  not  find  him. 
And  in  the  days  to  come,  she  would  visit  Tussaud's, 
and  perhaps  see  him  there,  far  beyond  her  reach, 
in  the  dismal,  but  imperishable  ranks  of  what  she 
would  call  "  atrocities." 

'His  position  on  the  pedestal  tired'  him.  His 
pulsating  blood  could  not  endure  the  perpetual 
pose,  and  he  alighted  from  the  standing-place,  so 
that  Dejazet  towered  above  him  once  more,  in  his 
yellow,  waxen  superiority.  Then  the  spell  was 
broken,  and  the  cold,  dark  hall  caused  him  to 
shiver.  The  watchman  appeared  suddenly — a  cu- 
rious contrast,  in  his  little,  old,  sordid  life,  to  the 
majesty  of  the  silent  wax-works. 

"  Time's  up,"  he  said — and  his  voice  echoed 
through  the  hall,  until  the  very  wax-works  seemed 
to  ring  with  it. 

"  I'm  ready,"  whispered  Reginald — for  he  could 
not  permit  his  own  voice  to  journey  through  the 
cavern.  Then  he  turned  to  D6jazet,  and  his  lips 
formed  the  word  "  good-bye."  He  looked  to  see  if 
his  double  heeded  his  departure,  and  it  seemed  to 


292  His  Own  Image 

him  that  the  features  of  the  model  were  contracted 
as  though  in  anguish. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  murmured  again. 

Then  he  followed  the  silent  watchman,  anxious 
to  save  his  vitality  from  further  depression.  The 
little  old  man  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he  locked 
his  unusual  visitor  from  the  exhibition.  He  had 
taken  risks,  for  the  sake  of  five  pounds — risks  of 
dynamite  and  other  explosive  possibilities.  Thank 
heavens,  that  it  had  all  ended  so  satisfactorily,  and 
that  he  was  five  pounds  the  richer,  without  grave 
results.  • 

Reginald  was  back  in  his  own  apartments  before 
the  day  dawned,  and  for  a  couple  of  hours  he  slept 
a  dream-ridden,  uneasy  sleep.  He  was  with  the 
wax-works  again,  this  time  "  assisting  "  at  the  wed- 
ding of  Dejazet  and  Marie  Antoinette's  head. 
The  dream  was  so  gruesome,  yet  vivid,  that  he 
awoke  with  the  perspiration  streaming  from  the 
pores  of  his  skin,  and  was  thankful  for  the  light 
that  came  into  his  room  through  the  blinds. 

It  was  his  wedding  day — a  black,  forbidding 
morning.  The  day  had  dawned  reluctantly,  as 
though  it  were  scarcely  worth  while,  and  more  for 
the  sake  of  keeping  up  the  old  battered  routine, 
than  to  confer  any  new  comforts  on  mankind.  It 
was  to  be  a  quiet  wedding,  and  none  of  the  actor's 
friends  had  been  bidden  to  it.  Reginald  Rellerick 
had  never  been  able  to  understand  the  theory  of 
inviting  crowds  of  people  to  watch  two  mortal 
atoms  linking  themselves  in  conventional  bonds. 

Crampton  was  abroad  early.     He  seemed  to  have 


The  Marriage  Prelude  293 

grown  older  within  the  last  few  days.  Reginald 
almost  pitied  him,  as  he  saw  the  old  shoulders 
stooping  over  their  self-imposed  work,  and  noted 
the  haggard,  dessicated  face  that  scarcely  looked  at 
him. 

"You  will  start  from  Euston,"said  Crampton,in 
rough,  gritty  tones,  "  and  you  will  reach  Winder- 
mere  late.  Rooms  have  been  secured  for  you,  and 
a  four-wheeler  will  meet  you  at  the  station." 

It  sounded  as  though  Crampton  were  parcel- 
ling him  off  to  eternity.  How  thoroughly  the 
machine  had  worked  !  The  wheels  had  gone  round 
and  round,  and  in  a  few  more  evolutions  they  would 
have  whizzed  him  to  Windermere,  where  he  would 
find  a  four-wheeler  awaiting  him  at  the  station,  and 
rooms  that  had  been  secured  for  him,  in  advance. 
Nothing  had  been  left  to  chance.  The  wheels  had 
done  their  work  well.  There  was  not  the  slightest 
possibility  that  he  would  lose  his  way  at  Winder- 
mere,  and  wander  into  the  lake.  There  was  no 
hope  of  rooflessness  and  houselessness.  It  had  all 
been  cut  and  dried.  Everything  was  cut  and  dried. 
Even  the  clothes  that  he  was  to  wear  had  been  pre- 
arranged. They  lay  on  the  big,  blue  bed — the  limp 
trousers  waiting  for  his  chaste  limbs ;  the  sprawling 
coat  clamouring  for  the  support  of  his  arms.  His 
collar,  his  tie,  his  boots  were  there  before  his  eyes. 
Even  the  chrysanthemum  that  was  to  adorn  his 
buttonhole  spread  its  starry  white  petals  on  the 
dressing-table. 

He  dressed  himself  slowly,  and  surveyed  his  form 
carefully  in  the  long  mirror.  Yes,  he  looked  yel- 


294  His  Own  Image 

low  and  dry,  and  there  was  a  sinister  twist  to  his 
features.  He  had  once  thought  himself  beautiful. 
Now,  he  was  unable  to  detect  any  grace  in  his  face 
or  figure.  He  had  aged.  Possibly  he  would  be 
rejuvenated.  When  he  came  back  to  London,  his 
prospects  brilliant,  all  the  impediments  in  his  path 
rigorously  removed,  then.  .  .  .  But  he  could  not  see 
himself  back  in  London.  He  tried  to  imagine  the 
old  playhouse,  in  its  glow  of  electricity,  and  with 
its  crowd  of  eager  faces — but  it  looked  dark  and 
distant.  He  could  see  nothing  but  the  present  that 
was  jostling  his  vision  ferociously. 

The  news  of  the  marriage  had  "  leaked  out,"  and 
Crampton,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  had 
supplied  the  leak.  The  little  ivy-covered  church 
was  well  filled  with  the  Bohemian  element  of  the 
metropolis.  Each  newspaper  had  a  reporter  on 
hand,  and  there  were  artists,  actors,  managers, 
stage-hands,  and  a  few  of  the  "flaneurs"  who  live 
for  the  world  behind  the  scenes.  It  was  all  in- 
formal ;  but  it  was  none  the  less  pictorial  for  that. 
Reginald  had  anticipated  a  deserted  church.  A 
few  "  witnesses  " — there  must  always  be  "wit- 
nesses "  to  the  deed  of  marriage — had  been  sug- 
gested to  him,  arid  he  had  easily  consented  to  the 
names  submitted.  But  the  marriage  of  a  great  actor 
is  scarcely  less  interesting  than  his  death,  and  a 
few  subtle  paragraphs,  in  a  few  subtle  journals,  had 
sufficed  to  fill  the  little  church. 

Reginald  went  there  as  in  a  dream.  It  was  a 
torture  that  must  be  endured,  and  if  he  could 
dream  through  it,  it  would  be  all  the  better  for 


The  Marriage  Prelude  295 

him.  It  was  a  simple  and  unadorned  wedding,  as 
far  as  the  spectators  were  concerned.  They  saw 
the  great  actor  in  conventional  morning  attire,  with 
a  face  set  and  stolid.  Their  eyes  rested  upon  a 
radiant  little  bride,  in  a  gray  walking-dress  of 
unobtrusive  fashion.  The  witnesses  were  equally 
subdued  in  appearance.  Crampton,  Mrs.  Land- 
ington,  the  two  "nobodies"  of  the  Netting  Hill 
tea-party  ;  and  half  a  dozen  other  selected  acquaint- 
ances, stood  beside  the  bride  and  bridegroom  at  the 
altar  rails. 

Reginald  heard  the  dull,  drab  tones  of  the 
minister  with  a  smile  upon  his  face.  As  the  rever- 
end gentleman  took  up  the  book,  it  seemed  to  the 
actor  that  it  was  a  catalogue  he  held,  and  instead 
of  the  marriage  service,  he  would  not  have  been 
surprised  to. hear:  "This  is  Dejazet,  the  self- 
confessed  murderer  of  the  beautiful  Genevieve 
Delaunay.  On  their  wedding  night  he  strangled 
her  to  death,  and " 

It  was  a  ridiculous  idea,  but  all  these  witnesses 
and  acquaintances  might  have  been  wax-works — 
the  relics  of  his  former  days,  Tussauded  around 
him.  The  funny  little  person  over  there  was  Piner- 
ville,  a  man  who  had  written  very  bright  plays. 
Watch  his  smile,  and  study  his  features.  There 
was  Winkle,  the  dramatic  critic,  who  praised  every- 
body so  highly  that  he  had  been  driven  to  drink. 
See  how  red  his  nose  was.  There  was  a  group 
from  the  club  to  which  he  belonged.  Note  the 
dark,  unlaughing  faces  of  the  men.  And  beside 
him  was  Crampton.  Crampton  was  the  secretary  of 


296  His  Own  Image 

a  famous  actor,  who  had  taught  him  to  be  reticent. 
Was  he  not  a  funny,  mouldy  thing  ?  That  fat 
woman  with  the  cameo  brooch  over  the  toboggan 
of  her  bust,  was  Mrs.  Landington,  a  fat  house- 
keeper of  Netting  Hill,  and  the  girl  by  his  side  was 
Felicia  Halstead,  an  actress  whom  all  London 

Reginald  awoke,  and  heard  the  final  words  of  the 
minister.  It  was  the  riot  of  his  emotions  as  he 
read  the  imaginary  catalogue  over  Felicia  Halstead, 
that  woke  him.  She  might  have  been  a  famous 
actress.  She  would  have  been  a  famous  actress. 
Now  it  was  impossible.  He  had  torn  her  from  the 
grasp  of  the  insatiable  London  public.  She  was 
his  wife. 

The  clergyman  was  ending  his  service  : — "  and 
have  pledged  their  troth,  each  to  the  other,  and 
have  declared  the  same  by  giving  and  receiving  a 
ring,  and  by  joining  hands.  I  pronounce  that  they 
are  man  and  wife,  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and 
of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Amen." 

He  laughed  aloud  as  the  final  words  were  spoken. 
The  people  around  him  thought  it  was  the  eccen- 
tricity of  glee.  They  were  man  and  wife.  He  had 
plucked  her  from  his  path,  as  an  obstacle,  and  she 
was  his  to  do  with  as  he  chose.  He  looked  at  the 
fair  and  luminous  face  of  the  bride  in  disgust. 
How  could  he  go  on  looking  at  that  face  which  he 
detested  until  death  released  one  of  them  ?  He 
heard  the  hum  of  the  people,  and  he  knew  that 
some  were  shaking  his  hand,  and  that  others  were 
expressing  impossible  hopes  to  him.  It  was  a 
tragedy-farce,  but  this  was  the  last  act.  The  cur- 


The  Marriage  Prelude  297 

tain  would  be  rung  down  shortly,  and  the  play  con- 
signed to  the  critics. 

What  they  were  all  saying  he  never  quite  knew. 
Pinerville,  after  his  congratulations,  seemed  to 
murmur  something  about  a  comedy.  He  rather 
fancied  that  Winkle  informed  him  of  the  birth  of 
No.  10,  to  be  named  Reginald  Rellerick  Winkle. 
Mrs.  Landington,  he  thought,  was  crying.  He 
wondered  why.  What  reason  on  earth  had  Mrs. 
Landington  to  cry  ?  The  club-men  threw  phrases 
with  "  old  fellow,"  and  "  old  boy,"  and  "  old  chap- 
pie," and  "  old  pal," — always  something  old — at 
him.  They  were  apparently  the  chorus,  and  they 
were  singing  the  "  old  boy  "  song  instead  of  the 
usual  "  tra-la-la." 

Felicia  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  to  the  ves- 
try, and  thence  into  the  dark,  threatening  morning. 
Mortimer  Branton,  whom  he  had  noticed  in  the 
crowd,  approached,  and  wrung  Felicia's  hand. 

"  You  slighted  my  offer,"  he  said,  "  but  I  am 
persistent.  It  is  still  open." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Branton,"  laughed  Felicia  in  her  irre- 
pressible delight ;  "  don't  you  see  that  I  am  mar- 
ried ?  Doesn't  that  settle  it  forever  ?" 

The  manager  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  No," 
he  answered,  "  You  will  have  your  month  of  honey- 
moon. You  can  think  it  over,  then.  I  leave  the 
offer  open  for  one  month." 

Reginald  scowled  upon  Branton,  and  would  have 
insulted  him  at  the  church  door,  if  the  manager  had 
remained.  As  it  was,  Branton  stole  quickly  away, 


298  His  Own  Image 

casting  one  amused  look  at  Felicia's  perplexed  and 
indignant  face. 

An  elegant  brougham  stood  in  the  street,  just 
behind  the  carriage  assigned  to  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom. Felicia  had  already  stepped  into  the  vehi- 
cle, and  Reginald  was  about  to  reluctantly  join  her 
when  the  owner  of  the  brougham  came  down  the 
path,  and  called  to  the  coachman.  She  cast  a  look 
at  the  bridegroom  and  he  recognized  her  instantly. 
It  was  La  Chinoise.  She  made  a  quick  step  for- 
ward and  took  his  hand. 

"  I  wish  you  luck,"  she  said,  nervously,  "  Mon 
petit — man  petit  Reginald." 

He  started.  It  was  not  her  usual  mode  of  ad- 
dressing him.  "  Have  you  forgotten  Dejazet  ?"  he 
asked. 

Through  her  carmine  tints  she  paled.  "  I  will 
forget  him,"  she  replied,  hurriedly,  "  if  you  will. 
Forget  him.  He  belongs  to  the  past.  Be  happy, 
mon  petit  bonhomme.  Je  te  le  souhaite" 

She  pressed  his  cold,  limp  fingers  in  her  own, 
stepped  into  the  brougham,  and  was  driven  away. 
Reginald  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  watched  the 
receding  carriage.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  jumped 
into  the  conveyance  that  held  Felicia,  the  driver 
whipped  up  his  horses,  and  the  marriage  prelude 
had  been  played. 


Chapter  XX 

HIS   NEMESIS 

REGINALD  sat  alone  in  the  black,  horsehair  smok- 
ing room  of  the  little  hotel  at  Windermere.  They 
had  arrived  late,  after  a  taciturn  journey  from 
London  ;  they  had  supped  in  the  dining-room  with 
half-a-dozen  belated  travellers,  and  then  Felicia 
had  gone  to  their  room,  collapsing  from  the  strain 
of  the  last  few  days.  Her  joy  had  been  gradually 
checked,  during  the  miserable  journey  from  Euston 
— the  fateful,  melancholy  Euston — and  as  she  had 
left  Reginald  for  the  cruellest  parody  of  a  bridal 
chamber  that  had  ever  been  imagined,  she  had 
looked  almost  apathetically  at  his  rigid,  tallowy 
face,  unenlivened  by  a  solitary  human  sentiment. 
She  had  murmured  a  weary  "  Au  revoir"  and  had 
pressed  his  damp  and  unresponsive  hand. 

And  now  he  sat  alone,  listening  to  the  wooden 
ticking  of  an  odious  grandfather's  clock,  and  to 
the  tumult  of  the  weather  outside.  It  was  a  noisy 
vehement  night.  A  raging  wind  almost  shook  the 
foundations  of  the  slender  hotel,  and  the  rain  was 
blown  against  the  windows  in  showers.  The  large 
drops  tapped  electrically  at  the  panes,  and  his 

[299] 


300  His  Own  Image 

wrought-up  imagination  tried  to  read  a  message  in 
the  din  of  the  storm. 

The  smoking-room  was  deserted.  One  solitary 
man  from  London  had  arrived  by  the  same  train 
as  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  apparently  he 
was  as  restless  as  Reginald  himself.  The  actor 
could  hear  his  footsteps  upon  the  veranda  outside, 
and  he  wondered  if  this  was  another  bridegroom 
at  Windermere  for  the  sake  of  sweet  communion. 
The  man  made  him  nervous,  with  his  insistent 
footsteps.  Yet  he  was  interested  in  him,  for  the 
landlord  had  told  him  that  he  hailed  from  London. 
A  metropolitan  unit  in  this  God-forsaken  silent 
spot,  seemed  like  the  last  link  that  bound  him  to 
his  other  life. 

The  grandfather's  clock  seemed  anxious  to  tick 
away  the  minutes.  The  noise  of  the  pendulum 
was  like  that  of  the  tramp,  tramp  of  soldiers,  and 
combined  with  the  swishing  wind  and  the  electric 
rain  outside,  it  made  Reginald  feel  that  his  ears 
were  filled  with  sound.  Here  he  was,  sitting  alone 
in  this  hideous  country  room,  miles  away  from  the 
vivid  life  of  the  metropolis,  a  prey  to  the  keenest 
agony  of  dread  and  misery,  and  for  what  ?  For 
the  sake  of  a  woman  who  had  clambered  into  his 
life,  and  who  had  perched  herself  upon  his  hopes 
and  his  prospects.  The  noose  was  around  his  neck, 
and  she  held  the  ropes.  And  she  was  upstairs, 
in  white  and  lace,  awaiting  his  advent,  and  prob- 
ably listening  to  this  dreadful  fracas  of  the  ele- 
ments, that  threatened  to  lift  up  the  hotel  and 
fling  it  away. 


His  Nemesis  301 

A  horrible  sense  of  helplessness  took  possession 
of  him.  His  blood  seemed  to  engorge  itself  in  his 
veins,  and  his  breath  came  stertorously.  Then 
he  was  calm  and  reflective  again,  and  the  tapping 
of  the  rain  at  the  window  was  distinctly  audible. 

"  Lights  out  at  twelve,  sir,"  said  a  voice  at  the 
door.  "  We  close  at  midnight." 

Lights  out  at  twelve  !  He  looked  at  the  grand- 
father's clock.  It  was  half-past  eleven.  He  had 
still  half  an  hour  in  which  to  reconcile  himself  to 
his  fate.  Still,  if  he  chose,  he  could  stay  there  even 
when  the  lights  were  out,  as  Dejazet  stayed  in  the 
darkness  of  the  Tussaud  Exhibition  of  the  Maryle- 
bone  Road.  What  would  he  give  if  he  could  look 
upon  Dejazet  at  the  present  moment  ? 

He  reached  over  to  the  tiny  marble  table  at  his 
side,  and  poured  out,  with  a  hand  that  shook,  a 
goblet  of  brandy.  He  swallowed  it  greedily,  but 
the  life  that  it  caused  to  rush  through  his  veins 
was  not  what  he  had  thought.  The  grandfather's 
clock  ticked  louder  ;  the  wind  howled  its  gusty  re- 
quiem more  vociferously ;  and  the  torrents  of  rain 
beat  against  the  window  as  though  rhythmically 
crying,  "  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  in  !" 

Again  that  engorgement  of  blood  and  that  ster- 
torous spasm  made  themselves  felt,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  waiting  until  the  crowd  in  his 
brain  had  passed  away.  He  felt  red,  but  as  he 
glanced  in  the  fly-spotted  mirror  opposite  he  looked 
yellow — as  yellow  as  his  double,  now  so  far  away 
from  him ;  as  waxenly  jaundiced  as  his  poor  De- 
jazet, who  had  suffered  as  he  now  suffered. 


302  His  Own  Image 

"Unable  to  overcome  his  loathing" — he  was 
reading  from  the  catalogue  of  Tussaud's  Exhibi- 
tion the  plaintive  story  of  the  French  artist's  life 
and  death.  Perhaps  Dejazet  had  sat  in  a  smoking- 
room,  and  listened  to  a  grandfather's  clock  ticking 
him  towards  his  Genevieve.  Reginald  tried  to 
calmly  consider  the  sequence  of  events  that  had 
led  him  to  this  moment,  for  of  course  there  was  a 
sequence,  and  a  logical  sequence  at  that.  His 
mind  was  incapable  of  logical  reasoning.  The  mo- 
ment itself  stood  forth,  black  and  threatening,  like 
a  jet  star,  in  a  clouded  sky,  and  the  moment  was  all 
he  could  perceive. 

She  had  wrecked  his  life,  and  ruined  his  career. 
And  he  had  married  her  for  the  sake  of  that  career. 
Could  he  ever  resume  his  old  life  with  this  millstone 
of  hatred  around  his  neck  ?  Would  future  gener- 
ations ever  remember  the  name  of  Reginald  Reller- 
ick  ?  Would  he  ever  go  down  to  posterity  ? 
Everything  seemed  far  away  from  him.  There 
was  nothing  in  this  baleful  place  that  suggested 
the  glittering  intoxication  of  London,  and  the  lu- 
minous clot  of  fame  that  had  been  his  before  his 
Nemesis  appeared. 

His  Nemesis  !  Yes,  she  was  his  Nemesis — this 
pale,  languid,  and  clinging  woman,  who  was  at  this 
moment  breathing  his  name  and  forgetting  the 
raging  storm  outside.  She  was  his  Nemesis — the 
infernal  daughter  of  Nox  ;  the  goddess  of  ven- 
geance ;  one  of  the  Parcae  with  a  helm  and  a  wheel 
by  her  side.  And  she  was  waiting  for  him  to  crush 
his  ambition  in  her  embrace,  It  was  she  who  had 


His  Nemesis  303 

dragged  him  to  Windermere.  If  anybody  had  told 
him  a  year  ago  that  he  would  be  sitting  alone  in  a 
squalid  hotel,  miles  away  from  London,  the  unwill- 
ing bridegroom  of  a  detested  bride,  he  would  have 
laughed  derisively.  He  laughed  hysterically  even 
now.  It  seemed  so  utterly  ridiculous.  His  life  had 
been  one  long  and  emphatic  worship  of  self.  He 
had  exclusively  followed  the  dictates  of  his  own 
will.  And  what  had  it  all  signified  ?  Merely  that 
at  the  prime  of  his  life  and  of  his  hopes,  he  was  sit- 
ting alone  in  a  deserted  hotel,  listening  to  an  old- 
fashioned  clock  that  teemed  towards  midnight, 
when  the  lights  would  be  put  out. 

The  man  on  the  veranda  outside  irritated  him, 
and  hurt  his  nerves.  Why  was  that  man  parading 
his  heels  outside  the  hotel  on  such  a  merciless 
night  ?  Perhaps  it  was  the  waxen  Dejazet  who 
had  followed  him  from  London  to  whisper  advice 
in  his  ear,  and  to  hurl  an  "  Et  tu  Brute  /"  at  him. 
His  lips  formed  the  word  "  Dejazet."  He  spoke  it 
aloud,  and  the  sound  in  the  empty,  horsehair  smok- 
ing-room was  dismal  enough. 

He  was  a  weak  fool  after  all.  Men  with  wills  of 
their  own — men  who  went  down  into  history — had 
not  tamely  submitted  to  a  fate  such  as  his.  Even 
De"jazet  had  fought  for  the  sake  of  posterity,  and 
had  won  a  yellow  waxen  notoriety  in  the  eyes  of 
the  English  middle-classes.  Better  that,  than  noth- 
ing at  all.  By  all  the  silly,  unstable  laws  of  man, 
he  was  bound  in  a  few  minutes  to  rush  joyfully  to 
his  wife,  and  fling  himself  into  her  unreluctant  arms. 
His  mind  recoiled  from  the  idea.  He  hated  her 


304  His  Own  Image 

very  name  ;  he  detested  her  personality ;  he  loathed 
the  obstacles  that  she  had  thrown  in  his  path. 
Why  should  he  lie  to  himself  for  her  sake,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  world  ? 

And  at  that  moment  there  came  upon  him,  like 
a  shock,  the  certain  knowledge  that  he  would 
never  see  London  again  ;  never  again  hold  rapt 
multitudes  in  the  splendid  enthusiasm  of  the  the- 
atre ;  never  again  look  upon  the  metropolis  that 
had  pinnacled  and  feted  him  ;  never  again  pose 
before  admiring  crowds  as  a  hero  and  an  idol ; 
never  again  live  the  glorious,  selfish  life  that  had 
pampered  his  ego,  and  raised  him  in  his  own  eyes 
above  the  common  herd.  He  would  never  see 
London  again.  He  knew  it.  This  was  a  new 
world  to  which  he  had  been  rushed  by  relentless 
steam.  This  was  a  world  that  some  natures  might 
prefer,  but  that  was  to  him  far  inferior  to  death. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  twelve,  and  the  woman 
who  was  the  cause  of  it  all,  lay  awaiting  him  on  her 
pillow.  He  ground  his  teeth,  and  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  head,  that  seemed  as  though  it  would  burst 
with  the  pent-up  atrocities  of  his  imagination. 
And  when  he  recovered,  he  could  have  sworn  that 
at  the  end  of  the  room — there — there  by  the  cur- 
tains that  framed  the  entrance — there  by  the  door 
that  scarcely  shut  out  the  storm — he  saw  Dejazet 
on  his  pedestal — Dejazet,  the  man,  the  hero,  who 
had  taken  fate  into  his  own  hands,  and  determined 
to  submit  to  nothing. 

He  arose  unsteadily,  and  staggered  to  his  feet. 
He  could  afford  no  further  thoughts.  Those  that 


His  Nemesis  305 

had  come  from  his  brain  seemed  to  have  seared 
and  pressed  it.  The  grandfather's  clock  struck 
twelve.  The  last  stroke  died  away  unwillingly,  as 
though  it  were  a  pity  to  end  so  brilliant  a  day — 
his  wedding-day.  A  menial  came  in,  and  ap- 
proached the  dingy  chandelier. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  said  the  menial  firmly  but 
obsequiously.  A  moment  later  the  lights  were  ex- 
tinguished, and  he  was  groping  his  way  up  the 
stairs  to  his  room.  Even  at  that  moment,  with  his 
brain  whizzing,  he  was  conscious  of  feeling  the 
threadbare  stair-carpet,  and  wondering  how  many 
weary  feet  it  took  to  wear  out  the  carpet  path  from 
the  smoking  room  to  the  bridal  chamber.  And  he 
knew  that  the  man  from  the  veranda  had  also  come 
in,  and  was  likewise  going  to  his  bed-room.  It 
could  not  be  very  far  removed  from  the  bridal 
chamber— judging  from  the  adjacent  footsteps. 

A  resentment  that  seemed  like  an  electric  shock 
tugged  at  his  heart,  as  in  the  dimly  lighted  corridor, 
he  saw  the  door  of  the  bridal  chamber  marked 
"  No.  37."  No.  37 !  It  was  Dejazet's  number  in 
the  Tussaud  catalogue,  and  he  realized  it  with  a 
smile  that  seemed  to  twist  his  features.  Here  at 
last  he  would  be  brought  face  to  face  with  his 
Nemesis — the  woman  that  had  dragged  him  from 
the  metropolis  that  he  would  never  see  again.  .  .  . 

He  opened  the  door,  which  was  unlocked,  and 
turning  quickly,  as  soon  as  he  had  entered,  he  tried 
the  key  in  the  lock  to  shut  out  the  world.  The  key 
resisted  his  efforts.  He  could  not  lock  the  door. 
It  might  have  been  tampered  with,  so  powerless 


306  His  Own  Image 

was  he  to  bolt  himself  in.  What  did  it  matter  any. 
way?  Nobody  would  disturb  them.  This  was  a 
deserted  hotel  in  Windermere,  and  who  would  dare 
to  force  a  way  into  his  bridal  chamber  ? 

"  Reginald !''  said  Felicia  in  a  low  tone,  raising 
her  head  from  the  pillow,  and  looking  at  him  from 
her  recumbent  position.  He  stood  still  by  the 
door,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon  his  wife,  in  her  white 
linen  and  lace.  If  he  could  only  be  calm.  .  .  . 

The  blood  rushed  through  his  veins,  and  then 
engorged  itself  in  his  brain.  The  swollen  red  cur- 
rent shut  out  all  external  noise.  The  grandfather's 
clock  ticked  no  longer  ;  the  wind  outside  had  suc- 
cumbed to  the  concert  within  him  ;  the  rain  tapping 
at  the  window-panes  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
stopped. 

"  Reginald,"  she  murmured — this  poor  little 
bride,  in  one  vain  woman-effort  to  be  coy. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  her.  She  was  as 
white  as  the  dimity  counterpane  that  covered  the 
bed.  The  lace  fell  from  her  neck,  and  he  saw  her 
blanche  blue-veined  throat,  a  throat  as  slender  as 
that  of  Lady  Jane  Grey,  that  had  been  severed  by 
the  axe  of  the  executioner. 

"The  body  was  found  with  four  black  finger- 
marks on  its  throat,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  clos- 
ing his  eyes,  while  the  blood  swished  no  longer,  but 
seemed  to  coagulate  in  his  head. 

"  Reginald  !"  For  the  third  time  the  little  bride 
called  to  him,  extending  her  arms  as  though  to  wel- 
come him  to  her  bosom. 

He   opened  his   eyes,  but  he  could  see  her  no 


His  Nemesis  307 

longer.  A  red  mist  arose  and  interposed  itself  be- 
tween him  and  her.  A  horrible  bloody  curtain 
spread  itself  before  his  view.  His  Nemesis  was 
calling  to  him,  and  beckoning  to  him. 

"  Unable  to  overcome  his  loathing.  .  .  . 

He  rushed  at  her  like  a  maniac.  He  knew  where 
she  lay,  white  and  quivering,  although  he  could  no 
longer  see  her.  It  was  but  a  step  to  the  bed. 
He  bounded  over  the  intervening  space,  agile  as  a 
panther,  although  blinded  by  the  curtain  that 
darkened  his  brain.  The  iron  of  the  bedstead 
struck  him  in  the  chest.  It  was  a  guiding  blow. 
A  moment  later  he  had  found  her.  He  felt  the 
lace  upon  her  gown.  It  brushed  against  his  fingers, 
and  in  his  rage  he  pulled  it  and  tore  it  from  her 
throat.  His  fingers  had  reached  her  warm  white 
flesh.  He  pressed  the  four  tips  against  her 
throat,  .  .  . 

There  was  a  scream  that  rose  loudly  above  the 
noise  of  the  storm,  drowning  the  whirling  wind  and 
rain,  in  its  acute  penetrating  agony.  The  maniac 
paused  for  a  moment,  stayed  by  the  affrighted  voice 
of  his  bride.  Then  it  seemed  to  give  him  fresh 
nerve.  He  was  avenging  his  wrongs ;  he  was 
championing  his  career  ;  he  was  struggling  for  the 
sake  of  posterity  as  Dejazet  had  done.  Again  he 
saw  her  throat,  and  lifted  her  violently  from  her 
pillow.  .  .  . 

There  were  steps  outside  ;  a  hand  taking  posses- 
sion of  the  door-knob,  and  in  an  instant  he  realized 
that  they  were  no  longer  alone.  Into  the  chamber 
burst  Crampton,  the  secretary,  mouldy  no  longer  ; 


308  His  Own  Image 

the  stoop  in  his  shoulders  vanished,  a  man  alert, 
erect  and  resolute.  He  lost  no  time.  He  saw  the 
poor  little  bride,  with  the  veins  standing  blue  in  her 
face,  as  the  fingers  of  the  bridegroom  tried  to  force 
the  life  from  her  body. 

He  grappled  with  the  maniac,  seizing  him  from 
the  back.  Reginald,  in  his  mental  revolution,  knew 
that  he  was  to  be  balked  of  his  victim.  He  turned 
his  murderous  hand  upon  the  intruder,  and  tried 
to  find  his  throat.  As  he  did  so,  the  climax  to  his 
fate  came  swiftiy.  For  an  instant  he  knew  every- 
thing ;  the  next  instant  the  clot  in  his  brain  seemed 
to  break.  He  fell  heavily  to  the  floor,  the  blood 
pouring  from  his  mouth  and  ears,  and  staining  the 
carpet  with  a  red  halo. 

Crampton  looked  down  upon  him,  tumultuously 
thankful  for  one  moment,  that  his  own  hand  had 
been  spared  the  horror  of  shedding  this  blood — 
this  blood  that  oozed  so  slowly  but  so  certainly. 

Felicia,  half  fainting,  raised  herself  from  the  bed, 
and  saw  the  prostrate  form  of  her  hero.  She 
motioned  to  Crampton  to  take  her  to  him,  and  the 
secretary  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  placed  her 
tenderly  in  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  awful,  swollen 
ego-maniac. 

"  He  would  have  killed  you,"  said  Crampton 
softly.  "  He  was  Dejazet,  wreaking  Dejazet's 
vengeance  on  the  helpless  Genevieve.  And  "• — he 
added  this  as  a  consolation — "he  was  not  responsi- 
ble for  what  he  did.  I  knew  it.  I  tried  to  avert 
it,  and — and " 

Crampton  broke  down  ;  the  tensity  of  his  nerv- 


His  Nemesis  309 

ous  strain  gave  way,  and  he  sobbed  helplessly,  like 
an  overgrown  schoolboy,  in  the  presence  of  a  sud- 
den catastrophe.  But  Felicia  was  dazed.  She 
had  not  yet  quite  recovered  from  the  frenzied 
clutch  of  those  murderous  fingers.  The  four  marks 
on  her  throat  were  distinctly  visible.  Crampton 
saw  them  and  shuddered.  The  lace  of  her  gown 
hung  in  strips  from  her  body,  and  as  she  sat  there, 
mute  in  her  chair,  the  ends  of  the  lace  fell  into  the 
pool  of  Reginald's  blood  and  were  dyed  carmine. 
She  remained  there,  comatose,  and  stupid,  for  a 
half  hour.  The  grandfather's  clock  below  had  re- 
sumed its  noisy  sway.  The  wind  and  the  rain  had 
taken  a  new  lease  of  din,  and  filled  the  room  with 
a  swirl  and  a  patter.  Crampton  was  thankful  for 
Felicia's  semi-swoon.  He  stood  there  and  watched, 
as  she  sat  silent  by  the  side  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  had  given  her  girlish,  illogical  life. 

Then  he  felt  that  the  spell  must  be  broken.  He 
lifted  her  in  his  arms,  motioned  to  the  people  out- 
side the  bridal  chamber  to  open  another  room  for 
him,  and  carried  her  in.  He  listened  to  the  doc- 
tor, who  declared  that  she  was  suffering  from  shock 
rather  than  from  strangulation,  and  prepared  to  stay 
in  Windermere,  until  she  was  ready  to  be  conveyed 

to  London. 

***** 

Great  was  the  sensation,  in  the  London  papers, 
as  the  news  of  Reginald  Rellerick's  death  was 
flashed  to  the  metropolis.  The  real  facts  were 
suppressed  by  the  reverent  Crampton,  who  perhaps 
alone  knew  them.  Death  from  apoplexy  on  his 


310  His  Own  Image 

wedding-night  was,  however,  quite  dramatic  enough 
to  satisfy  the  Londoners.  The  papers  teemed  with 
columns  of  obituary,  and  eulogies  that  the  dead 
ego-maniac  would  have  gloried  in.  He  was  the 
greatest,  the  best,  the  most  artistic,  the  most  en- 
lightened. Everything  was  superlative  in  death, 
as  is  generally  the  case,  when  the  positive  and  com- 
parative have  been  the  rule  during  life. 

A  few  of  the  Londoners,  his  friends,  noticed  a 
strange  coincidence.  Pushed  away  in  an  obscure 
part  of  the  papers,  far  removed  from  the  magnifi- 
cent obituary  notice  and  the  sensational  headlines, 
was  a  tiny  paragraph  that  read  as  follows  : 

STRANGE  ACCIDENT  AT  TUSSAUD'S  :  Just  before  mid- 
night yesterday,  as  the  watchman  was  making  his  first  rounds 
among  the  wax-works  at  Madame  Tussaud's,  a  remarkable 
thing  happened.  Without  any  warning  whatsoever,  and 
without  the  slightest  apparent  reason,  the  large  artistic  figure 
representing  the  murderer  Dejazet,  in  the  Chamber  of  Hor- 
rors, fell  from  its  pedestal.  It  was  comparately  new,  which 
makes  the  event  peculiarly  odd.  Nothing  of  the  kind  seems 
to  have  ever  happened  before.  The  waxen  Dejazet  was 
smashed  to  atoms.  The  watchman  was  quite  upset,  and  has, 
it  is  understood,  resigned  his  position. 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


At 

ML-L0 


MAY  0?1997 


DK  2  WKS  KiSiM 


50m-7,'69  (N296s4) — 0-120 


